


Trial by Fire

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt d’Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 20:49:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19092877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: It’s like a bad déjà vu, with roles reversed. This time, it’s Athos who saves d’Artagnan from a burning building.This was originally supposed to be my entry for the photo challenge prompt May-June for the Fête des Mousquetaires on FF.net. BUT what was meant to be a two chapter ficlet has turned into a multi-chapter WIP I couldn’t finish by the given deadline. Oh well. I’ll let it unfold in its own time then.





	1. Spanish Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really just a prompt I felt obliged to fill since I want the Fête des Mousquetaires over on FFnet to continue. Having only recently written a Strike fic with a burning house, this feels a little like I'm repeating myself, and I went with the most obvious scenario of the photo prompt (pic here: https : // imgur.com/RohC5) without bothering to explain anything. But in the end, there can never be enough stories of our favourite fictional characters dodging flames and escaping death, right?

It’s like a bad déjà vu, with roles reversed. This time, it’s Athos who helps d’Artagnan out of a burning building, timbers raining down around them, air thick with smoke. The Gascon is barely conscious and leaning on him, one arm draped over Athos’ shoulder, _heavy_ for such a lanky lad.

Athos curses, coughing thickly. He’s disoriented. The house is big - a pompous and many-roomed mansion, and he’s had to reroute. The way he entered is now blocked by collapsed brickwork and a wall of flames. 

He’d known this was a bad idea. They never should’ve split up. Nothing good ever comes of it, and he’d told Treville so when he’d sent them off in different directions to gather information on a Spanish spy. Athos doesn’t want to think about what would’ve happened had he not followed a hunch and, on his way back to Paris with no results of his own, hadn’t taken the detour to investigate how the lad was doing in Colombé, at the former district governor’s estate.

When he’d arrived, the estate had been on fire, flames hissing out of windows bursting from the heat. No one had been around, except for d’Artagnan’s horse, frantically pulling on the rope that kept it tied to a pillar near the locked front entrance. Athos had slashed through the rope with a single stroke of his rapier, letting the hysterical animal gallop away. Then, heedless of the danger, he’d looked for and found an entry at the back of the building and flung himself into the heat and the flames and the roar of the fire in search of the young Gascon.

Who is now going limp against his side.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos shouts at him. “Stay awake! Come on! Stay -” He shifts the lad higher in his grip and coughs again. “I need you conscious!” He slaps the boy’s face with his free hand. “Hey! D’Artagnan!”

With a wheeze, the young musketeer shudders back to half-consciousness. Watering brown eyes sway in the direction of Athos’ face. His breath smells of wine, and ash sticks to a smudge of blood at his temple. _Déjà vu._

“Athos?” Confused. Raw.

“Just hang on. I’ll get you out of here.”

Easier said than done. 

Eyes burning, Athos drags the lad through a door and into a hallway that is wavering with heat, its walls and floor rippling like a fata morgana. From an adjacent room, open door swinging to and fro, tongues of flames lick across the threshold. Every breath Athos takes is saturated with smoke and heat. In his ear, he can hear d’Artagnan’s own breath, reduced to choked wheezing.

“Not much further,” he coaxes the lad onward. “We’re almost out.”

Indeed, when they push through a large door at the end of the hallway, they enter a wide front hall which, too, is on fire. Sideboards and chairs along the walls are burning, paintings blackening and melting off their hooks. A chandelier overhead is swinging precariously in the hot gusts wafting down a wide and winding staircase. The whole house is groaning and creaking under the onslaught of the fire.

Aiming for the front door, obscured by smoke and pieces of flaming debris dropping from the ceiling, Athos perceives movement up ahead. The shape of a figure.

 _It must be the heat_ , he thinks. _An optical illusion._

But it’s not. Before he can squint and identify the shadow at the far end, his body automatically reacts to the sizzle and bang of a pistol going off. Shoving d’Artagnan, he dives right, behind the first flight of stairs and lands on top of the lad, shielding him, just as a musket ball blows part of the railing into a shower of splinters above their heads. A second ball follows, nicking the heel of Athos’ left boot when it slams into the floor. Quickly, he pulls his foot back.

_Who the hell is shooting at them in the middle of a fire?!_

Under him, d’Artagnan moans weakly, and he rolls off the boy, pulling his own pistol from his belt.

“Don’t move,” he hisses. “Stay where you are!”

“What’s--”

“Don’t. Move.” Athos says it with such stony emphasis that the young Gascon freezes.

“YOU’RE DEAD, MUSKETEERS,” a coarse voice rings out.

When Athos peeks around the corner, he thinks he’s having a hallucination. Blocking the front door, locked with a deadbolt, stands a massive, black-clad figure. A man, long dark hair fluttering in the fiery breeze, face blackened from soot, holding one pistol in each hand. His clothing is Spanish - some sort of officer - , his accent thick as he barks out: “In the name of the Spanish King - you will NOT make it out of here alive!”

“And you won’t either!” Athos shouts back, ducking as a smoldering piece of tapestry flutters past his head. “We’ll all be dead unless you clear the way!” He coughs. “Why not continue this discussion outside?”

“Over my dead body, Musketeer,” the dark voice booms back.

_A martyr, then._

Someone must be very intent on wanting them - _d’Artagnan_ \- dead. The lad must have gathered valuable information, perhaps even uncovered the Spanish Spy. Otherwise, whoever that gun-blazing giant is wouldn’t be willing to sacrifice himself. Or - and that is another entirely feasible option - he is simply stark raving mad.

“Is this really worth dying for?” Athos shouts over the crackling and hissing of the flames closing in on them.

Instead of an answer, he hears a loud crack coming from the ceiling. The chandelier’s fixtures are giving way, the contraption of crystal glass and candles - molten to lumps in the growing heat - drops half a metre until it swings on one final, straining cord. Risking a glance, Athos sees the Spaniard staring at the impending crash. 

_This is their chance._

“D’Artagnan! Get ready to move! On my command!” The Gascon blinks at him, valiantly clinging to consciousness. Athos can only hope he understands him.

Raining mortar, the ceiling groans. The chandelier jitters. Wax drips down. Then, with a whipping crack, the final cord snaps. The Spaniard looks up as the chandelier drops with a a whoosh.

Athos dives out from behind the stairs, throwing himself into a shoulder roll. Momentum propels him back on his feet, pistol already in his hand. He aims and shoots. The Spaniard has reacted to the movement. He’s fast, but not quite fast enough. Athos’ shot goes off as the dark man swivels and tries to bring his own pistol up. A grunt of pain. The giant jerks, red blooming on his shoulder, and he drops his pistols, but he doesn’t fall.

Athos doesn’t hesitate. Metal swishes on leather when, running towards the Spaniard, he draws his rapier. But the other man isn’t ready to give up. With a roar, he rips his own sword out of its scabbard. And it is, indeed, a sword, broad and heavy, unlike Athos’ slender weapon. When their blades clash, Athos’ feels the judder reverberate through his wrist and arm. He has to use both hands to brave the ferocious blow. Grunting, he uses his full weight to shove his opponent off him. Unsteady from his injury, the Spaniard staggers a few steps backwards, leaving the front door unguarded.

“D’Artagnan! NOW!” Athos’ voice, deepened by smoke, thunders through the burning hall.

The Spaniard has regained his footing, and Athos’ blade screeches and slides against his sword as they engage in a duel that cannot last long. It’s expert swordsmanship against brute force, and either Athos will lose to the man’s superior strength, or the Spaniard will succumb to the technical prowess of a well-trained Musketeer. 

“D’Artagnan!” Athos shouts again, unaware if the lad has moved at all. “Head for the door!”

Pirouetting to deflect a blow, he perceives a figure stumbling through the flickering inferno. 

“The deadbolt,” he bellows, chest heaving, sweat in his eyes. “Get the deadbolt!” 

A thrust misses his midriff by a hair. The Spaniard’s eyes glower at him, reddened and with deadly determination. Athos feels his strength draining. There’s not enough air - his heaving breaths pull only heat and ash and smoke into his burning lungs - and bright spots appear in his vision. His opponent is flagging as well, his shoulder wound bleeding freely through his black jerkin, but he’s drawing on a different kind of strength now: With nothing left to lose, he willingly spends his last reserves. 

Athos barely evades a wide sweep of the heavy sword, pulling his stomach in. He attempts a responsive thrust and is blocked by the man’s armor-plated big forearm, his blade sliding off the metal, sparks flying. 

To their right, he sees D’Artagnan reach the door and drop to his knees, a coughing fit tearing through him. 

“The deadbolt, d’Artagnan! Now!”

He parries another blow, his wrist screaming in protest. Their fight has let them drift near the wall where the fire is chewing through the tapestry. A sidestep brings Athos close enough to feel a burst of flame singe his hair, and he quickly wipes one gloved hand over the side of his head. 

D’Artagnan is pulling himself to his feet again, hanging on to the carved crossbeam in the heavy, wide door. With trembling hands, he reaches for the deadbolt locking it, another cough wrecking him.

The Spaniard has realized what’s going on and attempts to move in d’Artagnan’s direction. It’s the moment Athos has been waiting for: When the man drives Athos back with a strike and turns to attack the Gascon, he leaves his right side unprotected for the fraction of a second. Athos lunges, pulling his main gauche from its sheath, and drives the blade deep into the the man’s right flank. He feels it stutter against a rib and slide past, burying itself to the hilt. The Spaniard gasps and falters. Athos, not taking any chances, twists the the blade, drawing a scream from his wounded opponent’s open mouth, and pulls the dagger back out. Blood spurts. The Spaniard flails, trying to grab Athos along the way, but failing.

When the giant falls, wet gurgles coming from his throat, Athos doesn’t take time to pause. He steps across the dying man, legs wobbling with exhaustion. His gloved hands close over d’Artagnan’s and, with united effort, they slide the bolt back. The door opens and d’Artagnan falls against it. 

Thunder seems to build behind them. The fire has caught up and finds the Spaniard, his trousers breaking into flame with a whoosh. Reaching for d’Artagnan with watering eyes, Athos sees the staircase sway left and right, then collapse. A wall of smoke and debris rises and billows towards them. Groaning, Athos grabs his brother by the collar of his doublet and hauls him out the door. They tumble down a wide set of stone steps, flames and splinters and pieces of mortar shooting over their heads like burning shrapnel, smoke rolling over them in a black wave. Athos throws himself across the Gascon, one arm over his own head, shielding both of them as best as he can as, with a beastial moan, the front of the building collapses behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have ended it here, but originally, this was supposed to be about Athos and d'Artagnan's big brother/little brother relationship, and I haven't really got there yet, all of a sudden finding myself writing another goddamn action sequence instead. In other words - there will be a second chapter hopefully covering that, with a pinch of good old h/c for good measure. I hope it's entertaining enough to follow.


	2. From The Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos saved d'Artagnan from the burning mansion. Getting answers out of him and getting him up on a horse is an entirely different thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hiking vacation and RL have kept me from writing, and I have yet to get back into the groove. This fic needs to be finished by the end of the month, though, so I'm pushing myself to just get it done without overthinking it or expecting too much of myself. I'd hoped to limit this story to two chapters, but, alas, there will be a third.

Once he’s regained his breath, Athos drags himself and d’Artagnan further away from the collapsing mansion, pillars of fire erupting as the structure folds in on itself. The Gascon is conscious but sluggish in his movements, crawling on all fours, wheezing terribly, as Athos directs him to a safer spot and props him up against a tree trunk. They’re both covered in ash - clothes and hair turned grey, grit between their teeth.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos rasps, his own lungs burning. “Are you all right?”

The lad nods weakly, only to double over and cough and retch and spit blackish globs into the grass, desperately fighting for air.

“Easy,” Athos says, rubbing a hand over the boy’s back, desperately wishing he had his waterskin on him. “Breathe! Just breathe.”

D’Artagnan tries, sitting up and staring at Athos with wide, fearful eyes as he wheezes. One of his hands clutches Athos’ shirt front. A choked sound, then he gags and brings up more of the horrid black slime clogging his throat. That seems to help. The panic in his gaze lessens, and he lets go of Athos, drawing a merciful, almost clear breath.

Relief floods Athos. “Good lad, that’s it! Breathe.”

While d’Artagnan gratefully complies, still coughing, still sounding congested but no longer to the point of suffocation, Athos looks around, wiping his stinging eyes. The mansion is turning into a blackened skeleton, a flaming heap of burnt wood and bricks, but other than the dancing flames there is no movement on the estate’s grounds. The fire is licking at a low neighbouring building - the stables - but the absence of frantic neighing or hooves banging against stalls tells him the horses are long gone, just like the estate’s inhabitants. 

“Stay here! I’ll be back in a minute.” With a pat on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, he stands and, ignoring a spell of dizziness, jogs down the driveway and out of the gate. 

_Thank God._

His horse, an enormous black stallion, is still where he left him, tied to a tree just around the corner of the exterior wall of the estate. The animal is whinnying softly, one hoof nervously pawing the ground, but he hasn’t tried to break loose and looks at Athos with large eyes, ears facing forward in attention. _What a loyal beast._

Even more surprising, the black Friesian isn’t alone. Pacing around him is d’Artagnan’s mare, her cut reins dangling, white fur turned spotty and grey by the rain of ash falling softly from the sky.

“Good boy, Roger!” Athos pats his stallion first, an affectionate stroke over his soft nose, and the animal nuzzles him back. “Good, good boy.”  
“And good girl! Come here, Lily!” Slowly, in order not to spook the skittish animal further, he reaches for her reins and soothingly slides his hand across her neck. “Let’s go and find your master, shall we?”

He unties the Friesian and leads both animals into the compound where he left d’Artagnan. The mare immediately nudges the Gascon who’s slumped back against the trunk, breathing loudly.

Athos unfastens his waterskin from Roger’s saddle, takes a swig and kneels beside the boy, pouring cool water into his hands and then sloshing it over d’Artagnan’s face, wiping his hand across it to clear the soot. Another déjà vu, only this time it’s not his face that looks stunned and dazed.

 _She’s not here_ , he admonishes himself. _This isn’t her doing._

“Here. Drink!” Gently, he places the waterskin against the boy’s lips and tilts it to let him drink. D’Artagnan swallows eagerly. While he gulps down the water, Athos lets his eyes roam over the young man’s face and body, checking for injuries. Their escape and tumble down the steps seem to have done him no further harm. His limbs look intact. His posture doesn’t suggest any breaks or serious wounds. All Athos can see is the smudge of dried blood on his temple that was already there before.

“Are you hurt?” For good measure, he asks. He’s not Aramis, after all. Unlike the medic, he cannot spot injuries through layers of clothing or false bravado.

“No.” The young Gascon’s voice has dropped a full, smoky octave. “Are you?”

Taken aback, Athos frowns and looks down at himself. Is he hurt? He hasn’t thought about it. As far as he can remember, the Spanish berserker didn’t injure him. There’s no blood on his clothes, and his arms and legs move as they should. Now that d’Artagnan has asked him, he becomes aware of a headache, and a few nicks and bruises smart on his face and neck.

“No,” he says, redirecting his focus on d’Artagnan’s bloody temple. “But what happened to your head? What _happened_?”

“I’m… I don’t know… “ _cough_ “I think she… she put something in… in my wine?”

Athos’ frown deepens when he hears how slurred d’Artagnan’s words still sound. Confusion is written all over the young Gascon, and upon closer inspection it’s obvious that his pupils are as thin as needle pricks. It’s a familiar sight that Athos remembers from looking into a mirror not too long ago. 

“ _Who_ put _what_ into your wine?” To help the boy concentrate, he grabs d’Artagnan by the shoulder and squeezes.

“I’m not… I can’t really remember...” Glazed brown eyes, turned amber by the fire’s glow, are struggling to stay fixed on his. “It’s… she had black hair.” _cough_ “The governour’s wife, I think… yeah.”

Frustrated and increasingly worried, Athos presses harder. “Where is she, d’Artagnan? Where did everybody go?”

The Gascon blinks and casts a bewildered glance across the estate. “Gone. They’re all… gone.”

Athos huffs, his patience thin, his chest clenching with concern. The mission tugs at his sense of duty. D’Artagnan’s condition tugs at something deeper. “I know they’re gone. But where? And why did they leave you behind? Did you find something out about the spy?”

Instead of an answer, he receives a blank face and realizes that he’s trying to wring information out of a man who cannot give it. If his assumption is correct, it will be hours before his brother’s mind clears, and even then his memory may not yield anything useful.

“Never mind. Let me see this!” He pulls one glove off and gently brushes d’Artagnan’s hair aside to inspect the wound on his temple. Fresh bruising is darkening around a splotch of raw and blistering skin, a small cut in the middle.

D’Artagnan’s own hand wanders to the sore spot, as if he’d forgotten about its existence. “I… someone hit me. With a… a candle-” _cough_ “...candlestick.” His face looks crestfallen.

 _Not a torch then_ , Athos thinks, almost relieved.

“That’d do it,” he says, giving the lad’s neck an affectionate pat. “But you can’t tell me why?”

It’s a final attempt to make sense of this whole situation, to calculate whether there is any trail to follow, any reason why they should go after whoever did this to d’Artagnan instead of dusting themselves off and return to the garrison where Aramis can check the boy over and make sure he’s alright. 

A beat. D’Artagnan stares into the flames, his brain obviously snatching at shards of memories. Then he seems to lose his train of thought and stares at Athos. “What?”

It’s fruitless. And d’Artagnan’s condition is unsettling. For another moment, Athos hesitates. Treville wants results. The King _demands_ them. But whatever clues could’ve been found here are going up in flames, and the sole witness cannot provide any testimony and is in need of medical attention.

“Doesn’t matter.” Soreness creaks through his bones as Athos rises, and his head throbs in protest. “Let’s get you home. Can you stand?”

An unsuccessful attempt proves that the Gascon cannot, not on his own, so Athos hooks his hands under d’Artagnan’s armpits and hauls him upright. Heaving him onto Roger’s back is an effort that leaves Athos gasping for air, his lungs too tight, and for a dangerous moment d’Artagnan sways in the saddle, threatening to fall off again, until Athos swings himself up behind him and slings his arms around the Gascon, starbursts of exhaustion popping in his vision. 

“Here,” he rasps, guiding the Gascon’s uncooperative hands to the pommel. “ Hold on. You ready?”

The dark head in front of him nods sluggishly. Athos feels the Gascon’s strained, shallow pants against his own smarting chest. They’ve both inhaled a lot of smoke - d’Artagnan even more, and he hopes the night air will help clear their lungs. With a forward shove of his pelvis and a nudge of his heels, he leads Roger into a trot, then into a smooth canter. D’Artagnan is a pliant weight against him, his mare a white shadow to their left; he hasn’t bothered tying her to his own horse - she’ll follow the Gascon wherever he goes. 

As they ride deeper into the darkness, the burning mansion shrinks to a flickering half globe behind them, black tendrils coiling up into the inky sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that nothing really happened in this chapter except for Athos getting d'Artagnan on his horse. Lol. And I also realize that I'm weaseling my way out of having to explain what happened by drugging d'Artagnan into incoherence and amnesia. I have a theory, but explaining everything in detail would drag this story out into at least four chapters, and I don't have time for that.  
> Oh well. There'll be a bit of explaining and some sort of reveal, but mostly, there'll be whump and angsting and h/c in the chapter to come. I hope you hang around for that.


	3. Dark as Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos has brought d'Artagnan safely home to the garrison, and Aramis takes over. But how serious is the Gascon's condition? And does he remember what happened at the governor's mansion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the plan was to keep it simple and wrap this story up in this chapter. Ha. Hahaha. No.

Their horses’ hooves clatter loudly on the cobblestone of the courtyard when they arrive at the garrison. Dawn is still far away. Except for two Musketeers on guard duty and a cat darting across the training grounds at the intrusion, nothing is stirring.

“Get Aramis!” Athos barks at one of the guards, a recruit who scurries off at his lieutenant’s sharp command, in direction of the dormitories.

“Sebastien, help me get him down!” 

Athos eases his grip on the half-conscious Gascon tucked between his thighs and arms and lets him slide into the firm grasp of their fellow musketeer, a tall and strong man from Brittany. 

“What happened?” The guard asks, ducking under d’Artagnan’s arm to keep him on his feet as Athos dismounts. “Is he injured?”

“A fire. At Colombé.” Beneath him, Athos’ own legs feel like rubber, and his arms hurt from holding the increasingly unresponsive Gascon. A cough has been tormenting both of them throughout the ride, easing up on Athos but worsening in d’Artagnan who is wheezing frightfully. “He’s not burned, but he’s- Aramis!”

Relief washes over Athos as he sees the marksman and Musketeer medic hurry towards them, pulling his braces up over his shoulders, hair sleep-mussed, but his eyes awake and alert.

“What is it? What happened?” Reaching them, he drapes d’Artagnan’s other arm over his shoulders to help. Simultaneously, his eyes flick over their youngster - head, face, torso - searching for the cause of his poor state.

“Found him in Colombé, inside the governor’s burning mansion.” The hoarse rasp in Athos’ voice earns him a concerned look from Aramis, and he clears his throat. “He’s not burned, but I don’t know how long he was inside until I got him out. He’s been drugged.”

Together, they reach the infirmary, and Athos pushes the door open and helps them lower d’Artagnan onto a bed where Aramis arranges his sprawled limbs and pats the Gascon’s face, trying to rouse him. A congested moan is his only reaction.

“Drugged?” Aramis bends over him to sniff. “All I can smell is smoke and- wine?”

Carefully, he brushes d’Artagnan’s hair out of his dirty face and checks his eyes. The Gascon coughs dryly, his brown irises rolling towards Aramis, but he doesn’t seem to be fully awake.

“He said someone put something into his drink,” Athos remarks, rubbing at a sore spot on his back. “And look at his pupils.”

Grabbing a candle, Aramis pulls d’Artagnan’s eyelids apart with his thumbs. “They’re tiny,” he observes, surprised and alarmed.

Athos pulls up a stool and sits down. “Opiates?” His supposition is accompanied by a meaningful look.

“Could be.” Aramis nods. “A hefty dose of laudanum would do that.” He meets Athos’ eyes, dark memories flashing between the two of them. “Or it could be a toxin with the same effect. There are plants. Mushrooms. Has he been lucid at all?”

Wearily, Athos shakes his head. “Not really. He was awake, but foggy. Couldn’t tell me what happened. Kept falling asleep on me during the ride.” He looks around, becoming aware that something - _someone_ \- is missing from the scene.

“Where’s Porthos?” Wherever Aramis shows up, the big Musketeer usually isn’t far behind. 

“Accompanying the king’s cousin to Rouen,” Aramis says. “He won’t be back for another three days. - What’s that wound on his head?” Frowning, the medic inspects the injury on d’Artagnan’s temple. “It looks like a burn, but also as if-”

“Got clubbed with a candlestick,” Athos provides.

Aramis hisses in sympathy. A tense expression settles on his face as he tilts his head and brings his ear close to d’Artagnan’s chest, listening to his constrained, accelerated breathing. The lad doesn’t fight him when he gently opens his mouth and peers deeply inside. 

“Jesus Christ, his throat is _coated_ with ash,” he exclaims, and his own voice sounds strangled and - Athos thinks - a little shocked, which is rare for the medic who’s seen almost everything there is to see in terms of damage to the human body. 

With a bone-deep sigh, Athos runs his fingers through his sooty hair and suppresses a wince when he touches a painful lump at the back of his head. Not quickly enough, apparently.

“Are you injured?” Aramis sits up, scrutinizing him suspiciously.

“Just sore,” Athos replies. “I’m fine.”

His brother’s dark eyes narrow, but a sudden and violent coughing fit draws his attention back to d’Artagnan. Dry, hollow bellows erupt from the Gascon’s throat and, half-conscious, he rolls onto his side and clutches at his chest. Aramis, clearly worried now, places a calming hand on d’Artagnan’s arm and unties the strings of his doublet, opening the collar to help him breathe. His head whips around when, behind him, Athos cannot swallow a much more harmless version of the same cough.

“And how long were _you_ in that building?” The serious tone in Aramis’ usually upbeat voice demands honesty.

“I don’t know.” Breathing carefully against the tickle in his throat, Athos shrugs. It’s d’Artagnan who should have all of Aramis’ medical attention, not him. “A few minutes? Not that long. I’m fine.”

A shaky voice, interrupted by more coughing, chimes in. “He’s lying. It was… longer.” 

They both swivel around. Whether it’s the coughing fit that’s pulled him out of his stupor, or the fading effect of the drug he was given - d’Artagnan is blinking at them, eyes watering. 

“He fought a… a Spaniard, was it? To get us out.”

“D’Artagnan!” Two exclamations of relief, one hoarse, the other clear and, somehow, disbelieving.

Grabbing at the bed’s wooden frame, their youngest tries to sit up, and Aramis’ supporting arms are behind him immediately.

“How did we...? Where…?” Puzzlement crosses d’Artagnan’s features as he looks around, and the relief Athos just felt falters. The lad’s memory is just as compromised as before.

“Athos brought you home.” Explaining patiently, Aramis props him up with a second pillow. “You’re in the garrison infirmary. You said you were drugged. Do you have any idea what you were given?”

A scrunched forehead. Then, a headshake. “No, I d-” Whatever he wants to say is truncated by another round of explosive coughing, and he pushes away the cup of water that Athos hurries to offer him, desperately attempting to breathe between the ugly, hacking sounds. Athos’ own chest twinges in sympathy. When the fit passes, the young Musketeer lays back gasping, his breath laboured and accompanied by an asthmatic whistle.

“Is there anything you can give him to ease this?” 

One comforting hand unconsciously wandering to d’Artagnan’s arm, Athos looks imploringly at Aramis, and the medic is indeed already stepping to the cabinet that holds the infirmary’s supply of remedies - many of them mixed by Aramis himself - and pulls out a satchel of herbs and a small glass bottle.

“We need to help him clear his lungs and throat from the smoke residue he’s inhaled,” Aramis explains, looking more worried than Athos likes. “Sebastien!” 

The Musketeer has been hovering at the door, staying out of their way, doing what any of them would do when a brother was harmed and is being taken care of - stand guard and protect from intrusion - , and he snaps to attention. “Yes, sire!”

“Take these herbs to the kitchen, wake Serge and have him boil as much water as he can. Have him steep a handful of these in a mug, then bring me the infusion.” He hands Sebastien the satchel. “Pour the rest of the water into bowls. Several of them, and bring them here as well.” 

The tall Musketeer nods curtly and disappears. 

“Ath-” _cough_ “Athos…” The voice coming from the bed sounds like broken glass.

Athos cringes and leans over the Gascon. “Yes?”

A rasping breath. “The spy. Did we… did you get him?”

Brows knit in concern, Athos shakes his head. “No, we didn’t. We still don’t know who it is. You couldn’t tell me what you found out.”

“No?” The effort to remember is written all over d’Artagnan’s face, his smooth forehead creasing, his gaze wandering inwards, and this going back and forth between lucidity and utter fragmentation is starting to wear on Athos’ composure. 

“No. But don’t worry about that now.”

“He’s right.” Aramis has returned with a spoonful of medicine that he holds to d’Artagnan’s dry lips. “You need to rest and take this and get better first.” 

The Gascon swallows the ill-smelling elixir with difficulty. Nevertheless, he doesn’t relax. Nervous tension has him fidget and try to sit up. “But… I saw something.” 

“You saw something,” Athos echoes reluctantly. As much as he wants his sick little brother to rest, he understands that d'Artagnan won’t until he’s communicated whatever he’s straining to dredge up from his muddy brain. They might as well get it over with. “What did you see?”

And so, in fits and starts, interrupted by coughs and sips of water, d’Artagnan delivers a disjointed and contradictory report while Athos alternatingly motivates and shushes him when his breathing becomes too laboured, Aramis’ hawk-like stare on them throughout the process. In the meantime, Captain Treville has joined them, alerted by Sebastien, entering with a quiet nod to Aramis, a taxing look at Athos and a gentle squeeze of d’Artagnan’s shoulder. He doesn’t interrupt. He simply stands and watches and listens, processing. 

D’Artagnan had arrived to a household in apparent dissolution, its inhabitants preparing to travel or move. However, he’d been welcomed. There had been a dinner. At some point, d’Artagnan had caught a glimpse of a rider, a messenger? And he had tried to get a look around the house. Something had made him suspicious. It remains unclear how many people had been there. The governor. The woman with the black hair who may or may not have been his wife. Or the messenger who came and went? The last thing d’Artagnan remembers is fighting sleep while still at the dinner table, the impression of people moving away from him, of someone striking a match.

“I think I… I found something,” he manages, drinking from the herbal infusion that’s been brought by Serge, unusually quiet at the sight of the ailing Musketeer. “But I don’t know what or where I…” His face scrunches in desperate concentration. “I’m sorry.”

“You did well,” Treville commends him. “You did what you could. Thanks to you, we now know that something foul was afoot on the estate. Something the governor was trying to hide, whether it had to do with the spy or not. We’ll track them down. And then we’ll find out more.”

With a pat of d’Artagnan’s thigh and a nod, Treville turns and leaves, his “Keep me posted”, directed at Aramis, sounding less concerned than they all know he truly is. Their captain, familiar with constant worry as much as he is with loss, will not admit to his paternal feelings for any of his flock, but Athos, familiar with the captain, recognizes the upheaval in his narrowed blue eyes when he walks past him.

As the door closes behind their commanding officer, another coughing spell forces d’Artagnan to double over, and Athos takes the cup from him before he can spill the hot tea. They've stripped him out of his doublet and pulled his shirt open wide, but the Gascon desperately tugs at the collar, as if it could grant him more air. 

“Easy, lad. Just breathe.” It physically hurts to see him like this, and Athos’ soothing words feel empty. It takes unbearably long for the boy to settle, for his breathing to become less ragged. Sweat coats his face when he finally sinks back, releasing his involuntary death grip on Athos' sleeve.

“Rest now. Inhale. Try to sleep!” Sternly, Aramis pushes past Athos and pours more hot water into the bowls he’s strategically placed around the bed, their steam releasing an aromatic herbal mixture into the room. It’s a form of treatment they’ve all been subjected to one time or another during colds and agues, and, secretly, Athos takes a deep breath, the minty fumes a balm to the lingering tickle in his own throat.

Whether he imagines it or not: a few minutes later, he thinks the lad is breathing a little easier. His report delivered, he’s no longer restless but increasingly sleepy, and Aramis’ remedies finally seem to begin to work. The whistle is less fearful on his breath; his chest doesn’t rise and fall quite as rapidly as earlier. It still sounds terrible, but Athos is glad for the small reprieve.

As much as he’s tried to give an air of outward calm: it’s crumbling, and steadily so. The boy holds a special place in his heart, one he never voluntarily cleared for him. Of course, he’d be worried sick about any of his Musketeer brothers if they were in this dire straits. But d’Artagnan? Step by step, sword stroke by sword stroke, the stormy Gascon has graduated from an amusing mascot to an adopted brother that Athos - for reasons he doesn’t quite understand himself - feels responsible for and much more attached to than he’ll care to admit. More than that: d’Artagnan has become the quick-beating heart of the _Inseparables_ , the breath of fresh air that shook up their routines and rejuvenated their vigor the day he’d arrived.

“Do what he says,” Athos says softly, around a bustling Aramis. “Sleep it off.”

Satisfied with the amount of steam clouding the room, Aramis turns to Athos and places a hand on his shoulder. “Can I have a word with you?”

Grunting, Athos rises from his stool. The physical strain of their escape has caught up fully with him now, his muscles stiff, aches springing up all over his body that suddenly feels prematurely aged. He follows Aramis out the door. 

Dawn has broken. The garrison is waking up around them, sleepy men appearing from their quarters to fetch water from the well and clean up for morning muster. From Treville’s offices, they hear voices - some sort of argument going on which will not brighten the captain’s already somber mood. Assumedly, he’s giving orders to chase down the governor and his entourage and is running into problems. 

“What is it?” Rounding on Aramis, Athos sounds harsher than he means to, but he’s tired. A dull ache has settled low in his back, and, honestly, all he wants to do is sit and be left alone.

“D’Artagnan.”

“What about him?”

Hands on his hips, Aramis shuffles his feet and looks past Athos’ shoulder. “It’s bad.”

Athos’ feels his eyebrows climb up his forehead. “What do you mean by _it’s bad_?”

The gentle brown gaze meets his, unveiling sadness. “I mean that...there’s a chance that d’Artagnan may not recover from this.”

“What?” Disbelief and exhaustion keep Athos’ brain from catching up with Aramis’ words. 

The marksman takes a deep breath. “I may be wrong - I _hope_ I’m wrong, but he’s inhaled a lot of smoke - much more than you have, apparently, and for an extended period of time -, and his lungs are in bad shape. There’s the drug he’s been given, too. Opiates suppress breathing. And it’s not only the smoke. I’ve seen this before. The heat may have caused irreversible damage as well.”

“But he’s better!” Pointing at the closed infirmary door, Athos almost has to laugh. Aramis has got to be joking. “Your remedies are working! What are you talking about?”

“It may only be a temporary improvement, Athos.” In typical fashion, the marksman grabs at the back of his head and cants it, pulling at his own hair, and it’s the familiarity of the movement that makes Athos’ stomach drop. “It happens with smoke inhalation. The victims seem to be improving until…” He pulls harder at his hair. “...until the cough comes back with a vengeance and their throats close up. Their lungs fill with fluid and-“

“You’re wrong.” The words come out as a hiss. White hot anger pulses through Athos. 

Releasing his hair, Aramis shakes his head. His shoulders droop. “I pray to God I am. And I’m not saying it’s going to happen. It can go one way or the other. He’s a strong, healthy lad, and I’ll do everything I can. But I needed you to know. We love the lad as much as you do, but you’re the one who-”

“You’re WRONG!” Athos’ voice cracks as he snaps at Aramis. “You’re not a physician! You don’t know enough about these things. It not p-” The word catches in his throat, and he chokes back a cough. His legs turn to water, and he has to lean against the wall, one hand bracing his painful back, still glaring at Aramis through watering eyes.

Both hands raised, wanting to touch him but not daring to, Aramis talks to him in that voice that he reserves for the drunk, the mad and the dangerous.

“And _you_ need to sit down before you fall over,” he says, slowly and seriously. “Because I think d’Artagnan is not the only one who’s hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have five days left to finish this story, and instead of getting anywhere near a conclusion, I've opened it up to more drama. I'm still going to try and wrap it up by June 30th, if the universe lets me - and if my computer doesn't melt on me before that. The hottest week of the year and no A/C either at home or at work (this is central Europe, we don't _do_ air conditioning, we're Musketeers). I expect heartfelt exclamations of sympathy! And leniency if you spot any mistakes or typos. My brain is cooking in my skull.
> 
> Oh, and as usual: don't expect any of this to be medically correct. I didn't even look it up this time. I'm purely relying on years of watching ER and Grey's Anatomy. *ducks*


	4. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is a terrible patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no longer chasing that deadline I missed. *sigh* Which also means I'm leaving it up to Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan how long this story is going to be. I'm merely following their lead now.

“As we’ve just established, it’s not _me_ you should be worried about!” Glaring, Athos rights himself. His head hurts and the ache in his back is wearing on him; his throat is sore, and congestion tightens his chest, but most colds he’s had were worse, and he‘s certain it’s nothing a bit of rest and a few days of light duty won’t fix. 

“Why don’t you let _me_ make that decision,” Aramis says apeasingly. “Let me look you over. For my sake, if not for yours. So I can stop worrying about you and concentrate on d’Artagnan.”

Irritated, Athos rolls his eyes. “You’re wasting your time.” 

“I’ll make it swift.”

Sighing, Athos closes his eyes for a moment and opens them again, resigned. From experience, he knows that Aramis is not going to let this go; he’ll be nagging and hovering until Athos relents. Stalling the medic will only lead to less attention for d’Artagnan, and Athos doesn’t want to be responsible for that. 

He nods. 

“Good.” Aramis exhales, his taut shoulders loosening. “After you, then!” 

Reopening the door to the infirmary, he lets Athos walk past him and directs him to a chair by the window. 

“Sit. Take off your jacket.” 

With a dark look, Athos undresses. 

At the opposite end of the room, d’Artagnan has lifted his head and is watching them from tired eyes, breathing heavily through his open mouth. 

“What’s going...” _cough_ “...on?”

“Nothing.” Aramis smiles at him in that soft, reassuring way which, after all these years, no longer fools Athos, but may still work on d’Artagnan. “I’m only taking care of Athos’ bruises. Rest. Don’t talk. It’s fine.”

It is a testament to the seriousness of d’Artagnan’s condition that he doesn’t even begin to question Aramis’ statement but lets his head sink back onto his pillow and closes his eyes, quiet except for the harsh catching of air in his lungs.

Aramis steps in front of Athos. “Open up!” 

Athos huffs indignantly, but when Aramis unceremoniously grabs his chin and angles his face towards the light, he complies and opens his mouth. The medics peers inside intently, squinting, and then lets him go.

“Good. Your throat looks raw, but no dark coating.” He sounds relieved. “Does it hurt to swallow?”

“No.” 

Aramis purses his lips, and Athos rolls his eyes. “A little,” he reluctantly corrects himself.

When Aramis bends down to bring his ear close to his chest and listen, Athos twists his head out of the way, unnerved. He makes a conscious effort to inhale and exhale evenly, trying and failing to mask the subtle rattle in his chest.

“I assume coughing _doesn’t_ hurt, either?” the marksman says sarcastically.

Athos glares back at him. “No. It doesn’t.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” Cynicism drips from Aramis‘ words. 

Dismissing Athos responsive glower, he proceeds to check his face, mapping the nicks Athos can feel on the side of his cheek, courtesy of the flying debris; then he runs his fingers over Athos’ skull, trying not to pull at his thick, tangled hair, sticking together in a clump where it’s singed just behind his ear. When his fingertips reach the lump at the back of Athos‘ head, just above his neck, Athos can’t bite back a hiss, and Aramis freezes. 

“Did you not notice you were bleeding back there?” Reproach taints the question.

“No.” 

It’s not a lie. The back of his neck has felt sticky, but Athos had thought it to be the grime and sweat from the fire and the exertion of the sword fight. 

Palpating the swollen wound, Aramis inhales sharply through his teeth. “You have a _splinter_ stuck in there, and it’s not a small one.”

Athos can’t think of an appropriate reply.

_I didn’t know? I don’t care?_

Neither will sit well with Aramis. He decides on a shrug. 

As expected, the medic sighs in exasperation. “You have no idea how an _inch-sized piece of wood_ ended up in the back of your head?”

Before Athos can shrug again, d’Artagnan’s faint voice floats across the room. “Threw himself… across me when the… building collapsed.”

Aramis jerks, his fingertips grazing the protruding end of the splinter and eliciting an indignant _“Ow!”_ from Athos.

“Unbel-- the building _collapsed_ on you?!” The shrillness of Aramis’ voice hurts Athos’ head. “And you didn’t care to tell me?!” Reflexively, the marksman’s sharp eyes run over Athos’ body, his hands looking ready to peel him out of his clothes to check for broken bones and crushed limbs.

“Not _on_ us,” Athos corrects angrily. “ _Behind_ us.”

This is exactly what he’d wanted to avoid - all of Aramis’ attention on him; their medic’s resources, badly needed to save d’Artagnan’s life, stretched thin by fussing over his minor injuries. Fury at d’Artagnan’s perilous state mixes with fury at himself for getting wounded. But his thoughts become interrupted.

“He shielded me..” _cough_ “...from the debris.” _cough_

They both cringe at the raw, hacking sounds, and Aramis steps over to d’Artagnan’s bed to pour him another mug of tea and make him drink it, adding more drops of his herbal remedy to the still-steaming bowls when he’s set the emptied mug down.

“Try not to talk too much,” he advises. “Save your breath. I’ve got him.” He flicks his head at Athos.

His eyes pools of warm darkness, d’Artagnan nods weakly. “He saved me,” he rasps.

A soft smile ghosts over the medic’s face. “Yes. He does that.”

On the other end of the room, Athos suppresses the urge to get up and leave. Not enough that his student’s precarious condition pulls at his equilibrium, the steady ground he usually walks on now a capricious and shaky thing - but Aramis throws him further off-balance with his sentimental antics.

“Can we get on with this?” Gruffly, Athos points at the back of his head and squirms in his chair. “You said you’d make it swift.”

He dismisses Aramis’ gentle smirk with a grunt.

A few minutes later, the offending splinter is swimming in a bowl of hot water along with the forceps and scalpel Aramis used to extract it, and Athos is pressing a cloth to the bleeding wound while Aramis prepares needle and thread to close it: three stitches that Athos takes with the stone-faced sangfroid he’s cultivated in his years as a soldier. When Aramis is done and has applied that godawful-smelling poultice of his that’ll stick to his hair _forever_ , Athos makes to get up, but a firm hand on his shoulder keeps him in his chair.

“What?”

“Your back.”

“What about it?”

“I can tell it’s hurting you, and I need to have a look.”

No escaping the medic’s vigilant eyes, then. It is Athos who sighs deeply now. But he hitches up his shirt. Behind him, Aramis swears.

“For God’s sake, Athos!”

Athos grits his teeth. “It’s only a bruised back.”

“Yes,” Aramis snaps. “A bruise the size of a brick, and in a very vulnerable area.” And then, moving around to look Athos in the eyes, Aramis adds desperately: “Please tell me you aren’t peeing blood?”

Athos juts his chin forward.

Aramis’ shoulders sag. “Oh, Athos…”

“I’m not saying I am,” Athos says defensively. “We only stopped once and it was dark and I had to make sure that d'Artagnan stayed on the horse…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air and leaves it to Aramis to fill in the blanks.

“...but the pain is familiar?”

Cursedly, it is. The same dull, boring ache has been building in his lower back that had once plagued him during a likewise injury. Back then, after a crazy fight involving a dozen men and just as many horses, he’d been thrown off and stepped on by one of the frantic animals and been laid up in the infirmary afterwards, barely able to move, nauseous, peeing red-swirled urine into the chamber pot under Aramis‘ grim supervision until it had cleared up on its own.

Resigned, Athos nods. “Yes.”

“Wonderful.” Aramis walks a few upset half-circles around him, making a mess of his hair. “This is…”

They all know what this is: a disaster, and Athos feels responsible for it although, truthfully, he isn’t. He didn’t want to add to Aramis’ worry, secretly hoping the pain in his back was nothing but a large bruise - and he still thinks it might be - and not an internal injury. Things are bad enough as they are, and he _refuses_ to make them worse, but there’s denial and there’s reality, and he’s never been particularly good at accepting the later when it comes to infirmity.

After taking a deep breath, Aramis has returned to examining the bruise on his back, and Athos feels the careful touch of warm, sure hands on his skin. “It looks deep, and it _is_ level with your right kidney,” the medic ruminates. “Any idea how _this_ happened?”

In fact, Athos has. “Rubble,” he says, keeping it short. “Hit me in the back when it blew over us. But I really don’t believe it’s as bad as you think.”

Belying his own statement, he groans when Aramis pokes at a spot just above his pelvis, a lance of pain shooting through his back all the way to his stomach.

“Let’s hope not,” Aramis says ominously. “I’ll rub a poultice into it, and then I want you to rest and drink a lot of water and… You know the drill. And we need to treat your congestion as well.”

In the bed across the room, d’Artagnan pulls himself up onto one elbow, his breath stuttering. 

“Is it...serious?” 

Letting Athos’ shirt drop back down, Aramis wipes the careworn expression from his face and stands up straight to meet their youngster’s anxious gaze. “I told you not to worry,” he says firmly, and Athos is relieved to hear the familiar resoluteness return. “I’ve got him. I’ve got both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Aramis. As if treating d'Artagnan for severe smoke inhalation wasn't difficult enough, now Athos may or may not be suffering from a traumatic injury to his kidney! I don't know why I can't keep my hands off the medical stuff. Maybe because I find it fascinating? 
> 
> Anyway. Thank you, @imaginehowcharming, for the lesson on pulmonary damage from a fire - it's going to come in handy in the following chapter(s).


	5. A Dying Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis does what he can for d'Artagnan, but when things takes a turn for the worse, it may not be good enough. Athos isn't ready to lose another little brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Had to deal with some health issues (my own kind of sickfic, haha. The universe has a weird kind of humour...) and then was out of town for a few days. 
> 
> Trying to get back in the writing groove now. I rewrote the second half of this chapter several times, and I'm tired of staring at it, so here it goes.

As the day wears on, Aramis stays true to his word. Tirelessly, he refills hot water, brews tea, administers medicine and even gets some soup down d’Artagnan’s swollen throat and half a meal into Athos. Word about the young Musketeer’s serious condition has spread, and helping hands bring food from the kitchen, fresh sheets from the laundry and firewood to keep the infirmary warm. The door to the sick room is permanently flanked by two of their brothers, ready to run errands or deliver messages. In the courtyard, afternoon practice is a hushed and subdued affair, and whenever Aramis appears, he’s beleaguered by fellow soldiers inquiring about their injured brother’s state. Treville stops by in frequent intervals to make certain Aramis has all the support that he needs, to stare Athos back into the bed he’s been relegated to and to sit by d’Artagnan’s side, delivering firm words of encouragement.

When evening approaches, it seems that d’Artagnan is stabilizing. While his breathing remains a cacophony of whistling, rattling sounds, he coughs less and manages periods of sleep that seem to do him good. In the next bed over, Athos is relieved and allows himself to curl up on his uninjured side and try to catch a bit of rest himself. He’d protested, insisting that he didn’t need to lie down, but, begrudgingly, he’s had to admit defeat. The pain in his back has branched out to his flank, sending hot tendrils into his stomach. And whether he was peeing blood before or not - he definitely is now, his urine an undeniable shade of pink. Not to a dramatic degree, but enough for Aramis to order him straight to bed and pester him with the same vile-smelling concoctions he had to endure the last time.

His back pressed against a warm, cloth-wrapped brick that Aramis has wordlessly stuck under his covers, Athos keeps his eyes on the Gascon slumbering fitfully two arms’ lengths from him.  
Looking at the lad’s lanky form, at his features softened by sleep, he’s transported back to the day d’Artagnan arrived at the garrison, brazen and defiant, challenging Athos in a duel. A young fool, more heart than head, his blood sung with energy, his talent gleaming like a raw diamond as he stood his ground against Athos with a storm of emotions in his eyes. 

Like a gust of hot wind, the Gascon whirled into their lives, shaking up their routines. Despite their misgivings, Aramis and Porthos, recognizing a fellow mischievous nature when they saw one, quickly adopted d’Artagnan into their ranks. They shook their heads at his quick temper, but their affection for the new arrival grew quickly. Athos, in turn, rolled his eyes at the nineteen-year-old’s impatience and at his need to prove himself. And when the lad began to follow him around like a puppy, pleading for Athos’ tutelage, he was torn between trying to shake him loose and an uncanny feeling of familiarity. A familiarity that hurt in a warm, wistful way.

Of course, Athos isn’t stupid. By now, he’s realized that d’Artagnan, several years his junior, with his charming, outgoing nature and his hunger for adventure and heroism, reminds him of his younger brother, Thomas. Tommy, too, had been looking up to Athos while, at the same time, blowing his advice to the wind in all matters of the heart. Like d’Artagnan, his baby brother had been smart and headstrong, gifted and reckless. And they share another trait which fascinates Athos, hardwired the opposite way, to no end: the unshakeable optimism that, in the end, no matter how bad things are, everything will always turn out well.

Looking at d’Artagnan now, so unnaturally quiet and still, Athos admits to himself that he’s traded a dead little brother for one who is fighting for his life, and the idea of losing him, too, is making his world blacken around the edges.

Soft boot treads from behind make Athos roll over, trying to see who’s entering, but he stops mid-movement when pain clamps down on his flank and he swallows a curse, reassuming his fetal position immediately.

“Probably best not to move,” says Aramis dryly, rounding the bed to appear in Athos’ line of sight. 

Athos grinds his teeth. “Thanks for the advice.”

A tired smirk lifts one corner of the medic’s mouth as he lets his scrutinizing gaze wander first over Athos then d’Artagnan. “Has he stirred?”

“No.”

“Coughed?”

“Yes, but he didn’t wake.” Athos shifts, trying and failing to get comfortable.

“Hm.” Gently, Aramis, places his hand on d’Artagnan’s forehead. The worry line between his eyes deepens.

Alarmed, Athos struggles up onto one elbow. “Fever?”

Aramis sighs. “Yes.” 

Something drops in Athos’ chest. He forces himself to sound practical. “What do we do?”

“ _You_ are not doing anything,” Aramis corrects him with an austere look. “ _You_ stay put and let me handle the lad. This was to be expected, unfortunately.”

He’s already folding the woolen blanket back that’s been tucked up to d’Artagnan’s chin. Although the room is warm, the air humid with steam, the sick Gascon shudders and begins to wake. Fever-glazed eyes open sluggishly and flicker to settle on Athos right across from him.

“What’s--” The cough returns with a vengeance. One single word, and the rest of d’Artagnan’s intended question drowns in a series of torturous, hacking bellows that sound even worse than before. While Aramis efficiently hoists d’Artagnan onto a pile of pillows and holds him by the shoulders, a steady string of calming words flowing from his lips, Athos stews in eternal minutes of powerlessness. When the fit finally passes and Aramis puts a cup of water to the blue-tinged lips of the Gascon, Athos finds himself releasing a breath he must have held the entire time.

“Good. Rest.” When Aramis sets the cup down, d’Artagnan sinks back, still breathing noisily through his open mouth. When he rolls his head toward Aramis, clearing his throat to speak, the medic shushes him gently.

“No. Don’t talk. You haven’t missed anything There is no news. Rest.”

“But I need to —“

“ _You_ need to rest. That is an order.” Gentle steel rings in the medic’s voice.

“Listen to Aramis,” Athos grits through clenched teeth as he slowly pushes himself up and slides his legs off the bed to perch on its edge. His back spasms, and his stomach aches, but, for d’Artagnan’s sake, he wants to look strong, like a commanding officer fit to issue directives, and he can’t do that lying down. 

“But I h—“ Renewed coughing puts an end to the discussion, and it takes even longer this time for the spell to pass, Aramis supporting the boy through it while Athos’ knuckles turn white, hands clutching the bed frame, feeling useless.

“No. More. Talking.” When the Gascon finally recovers, Aramis fixes him with his non-negotiable healer’s stare, mopping the sweat off his patient’s face, but there no longer seems to be cause for sternness. D’Artagnan has clearly given up on trying to talk as he reclines limply, nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling in a quick, inefficient rhythm. The rattling in his chest has assumed a new, wet quality, and the blue tinge to his lips lingers.

Coldness tingles Athos’ spine. He grabs Aramis by the arm, pulling him down to hiss into his ear. “He’s getting _worse_.” 

The downcast look on Aramis’ face does nothing to dispel Athos’ worry. Instead, Aramis bends over his patient with a fleeting, faux smile, presses his ear to d’Artagnan’s chest and listens intently. 

“What’s -” D’Artagnan heaves a gurgling breath. “-- happening? I can barely…” - a strangled wheeze - “...breathe.” The boy’s eyes widen with growing alarm.

As he straightens, Aramis comfortingly brushes d’Artagnan’s arm, but his carefully delivered explanation makes Athos’ blood run cold.

“You have fluid collecting in your lungs. It’s an aftereffect of the fire.”

D’Artagnan stares at him, the strain of breathing causing beads of sweat to run down his face, tan skin flushed with fever. Athos knows that he’s waiting for a hopeful follow-up to those serious words, for Aramis to tell him not to worry, that this will pass, that he will feel better soon. But the words don’t come. No comfort follows. Only the realization of a truth.

The unlined, beardless face of their youngest brother freezes as his pupils blow wide with fear.

“Am I…” His eyes flick between Athos and Aramis, his voice a scorched whisper. “Am I dying?”

As much as Athos wants to turn his head away, as much as his own chest burns and his stomach seizes: he forces himself to sit still and hold the lad’s frightened gaze.

“We will not let that happen,” he declares.

“Not if we can help it,” Aramis amends. 

But their promises are undercut by a strangled sound from d’Artagnan’s throat. All of a sudden, his quick, wet gasps become desperate and he opens his mouth wide in a panic-stricken attempt at breathing. Eyes bulging with dread, he arches his head back, struggling for air. His hands claw at his chest and neck.

“Aramis?!” Ignoring his own injury, Athos springs up and reaches for the Gascon while shooting the marksman a horrified look. 

“Breathe, d’Artagnan!” Aramis has slipped behind the boy and is propping him up against his own chest. “Breathe!” One of his hands slings itself around the Gascon’s sweaty forehead in an attempt to keep his rolling head still while Athos grasps the clawing fingers. Choked, grating sounds pass across the increasingly blue lips. Terror distorts the lad’s smooth features, and Athos cannot bear it.

“Aramis! You have to _do_ something!” The exclamation leaves his own throat like something splintering in mid-air.

D’Artagnan is writhing in Aramis’ arms now. 

“There is nothing I can do, nothing I can--” Despair ripples across the medic’s face as he looks at Athos, words failing him. 

In shock, Athos stares back. This cannot be happening. He will not _allow_ this to happen.

“Aramis!” Athos is shouting now. Under his hands, d’Artagnan’s struggles are weakening. “There has to be something! Come on! _Think_!”

The medic is shaking his head, desperately, tenderly pressing his cheek against the Gascon’s as his gurgling breaths are weakening. Shattered, Athos sees the boy’s eyes boring into his in a silent plea for help.

“Aramis, _please!_ ” Athos is begging now. He cannot have another little brother dying on him. He cannot, _will not_ survive another plunge into an abyss of grief and guilt.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” Aramis looks devastated, his arms cradling d’Artagnan protectively. “I wish I knew what… If Lemay--” He stops and lifts his head. Then he stares at Athos, his expression lighting up with an idea.

“What?” Athos asks breathlessly.

“I think I know… Hold him! Keep him awake!”

Quickly, Aramis swaps positions with Athos, transferring the lad into his arms. The boy is a heavy, fever-drenched weight against his chest and has stopped moving, his rasping breaths and frightful blinking the only remaining signs of life. It’s as if being handed a frayed, thin tether that may tear in his grasp at any moment. 

Hope and fear mixing nauseatingly in his stomach, Athos watches Aramis move to a closet and pull something from a drawer. Gold glints as he unwraps a cloth and returns, letting the item slide into one of the bowls filled with steaming water, along with one of his scalpels. With a gasp, Athos recognizes the lean golden tube Doctor Lemay used on their Captain when he’d been shot in the chest.

In his embrace, d’Artagnan gives a strangled little whimper that Athos answers with a comforting palm against his hot cheek.

“Are you sure about this?” Athos fixes the medic with his gaze.

Rolling up his sleeves, Aramis has an air of new determination about him. “No. But we can either sit here and watch him suffocate. Or we can try and drain the fluid from his lungs.” 

He wrenches the infirmary door open and waves the two Musketeer guards into the room, ignoring their concerned looks upon perceiving the scene. “Get inside! Help us hold him down! Quickly!” 

It helps that Aramis is so matter-of-fact now. That things are in motion. That they’re no longer just _sitting_ here, watching helplessly as d’Artagnan fades. And he _is_ fading, each unproductive breath a momentous effort now, not only his lips but the skin around his mouth turning blue as well. The hustling and bustling helps as they position him according to Aramis’ instructions, Athos holding the lad’s right arm above his head to give Aramis access to his side while the other two - Sebastien and a seasoned, brown-skinned Musketeer called Farid - have his legs and other arm.

There is no time to transfer him to the table they normally use for surgical procedures. D’Artagnan is running _out_ of time, the fear in his eyes giving way to a glazed look now that frightens Athos even more than his stuttering breaths. Aramis sees it, too, and he rips the Gascon’s shirt out of the way, hands still dripping wet from washing them in a hurry, and, wielding the scalpel, he flutters his fingertips over d’Artagnan’s pumping ribcage to find the correct spot. Blade pressed against the hot skin, his eyes find Athos’ one last time, looking for confirmation, reaching for and testing the bond between them. Athos nods.

And then, as the scalpel slices through skin and tissue, as all hell breaks loose, as blood spurts and limbs strain and an inhuman sound rips from d’Artagnan’s throat, Athos narrows his focus down to two things: to holding d’Artagnan’s arm and to holding his pleading brown gaze until the lad finally, mercifully loses consciousness.


	6. Nursing the Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan endures a painful procedure that may save his life. Athos struggles with his own injuries. And Aramis really could use some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter, but I knew what I wanted it to end on, and - as usual - getting there proved to take up more words than expected. Once again, I got caught up in wanting to cover every little progression, every move they make, every back-and-forth and it's beginning to feel a little tedious, but that's me. One thing I already know for sure: My next Musketeers story will NOT be h/c. I'm running out of words to describe pain, and that's just ridiculous.

His eyes on d’Artagnan’s slack face, Athos hears the wrenching and tearing of tissue. A low curse from Aramis. A wet, slurping sound. Fingers digging into flesh. Suddenly, something splatters onto the floorboards. D’Artagnan’s chest heaves once, gurgling, then stills. A heartbeat. Then, a wheezing breath. Another, sounding clearer than before. And another, bringing colour back to d’Artagnan’s lips.

Athos exhales.

“It worked!” Hands bloody, Aramis looks up, a hesitant, incredulous smile sneaking across his face as he stares at the steadying rise and fall of d’Artagnan’s chest. The Gascon’s breath still rattles in his lungs, but it no longer sounds as if he’s drowning.

“Thank God.” Hanging his head, but not letting go of d’Artagnan’s arm, Athos feels his legs wobble. He steadies himself against the bed he’s hunched over, unsure whether it’s his injuries or relief that’s making him feel so faint. 

Aramis, of course, has noticed . “You should sit down, Athos.”

Athos shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 

But when he risks a glance, his stomach flips at the sight of the tube protruding from d’Artagnan’s chest and moving with every inhale and exhale. Sickly fluid is still dripping from it and adding to the small puddle on the floor. Athos swallows a cough, afraid it will make him gag while Aramis unflinchingly secures the tube with a bandage, his gaze alternating between the wound and his patient’s face, still pale but losing its bluish tint.

“Is he going to be all right?” Farid’s deep voice rings from the foot of the bed where he still has his hands around d’Artagnan’s ankles.

“I don’t know.” With one foot, Aramis shoves a bowl under the dripping tube. “I hope he will be. He’s breathing better now, and that’s a start.”

“What about his other lung?” While not being a medic himself, Athos has a good knowledge of anatomy. “Don’t you have to treat both sides?”

After listening to d’Artagnan’s chest again, Aramis shakes his head. “His left lung isn’t as bad. Thank God. We’ll keep a close eye on it. Hopefully, it’ll clear up on its own.” 

Finished tying the bandage, Aramis dips his hands into a bowl, the water turning a rusty red immediately as the blood dissolves. Not normally squeamish, Athos feels sweat break out on his upper lip. 

“What now?” he asks unsteadily.

Towelling off his hands, Aramis lets his eyes sweep over the unconscious Musketeer’s form with an equal amount of fondness and skepticism. For the moment, d’Artagnan looks peaceful, even with the gruesome tube stuck in him. The terrible gurgling breaths have transformed to the less alarming sounds of a chest cold.

“Now we wait. Manage his fever. Keep him still. Make sure he doesn’t pull out the tube. It’ll be extremely painful when he wakes up. ” 

_When_ , not _if_. Athos takes note of that tiny, hopeful difference in Aramis’ phrasing and hangs on to it. He’s also hanging on to d’Artagnan’s bed by now, fighting nausea and what feels like a knife stuck in his back, and he wonders how he will make it back to his own bed in a dignified fashion. It is one thing to have Aramis witness his weakness, but quite another to let Sebastien and Farid see him like this. 

As if reading his mind, Sebastien asks: “Do you still need us in here? If you do, we’ll stay, but I’m not good with… this.” A little pale, he points at the bloody cloths and the used scalpel lying discarded by the bed. 

“No, thank you. Both of you.” Aramis gives the two Musketeers a grateful smile. “I’ll summon you if we need further assistance, but you can go now.”

Farid nods darkly. “We’ll be right outside if you need us, brother.” 

With encouraging shoulder slaps and a tip of their hats, Farid and Sebastien leave to resume their posts outside. Barely in time for Athos who, as soon as the door closes, staggers to his bed and sinks onto it, not quite able to conceal a moan. Aramis grimaces in sympathy, and Athos is in too much discomfort to protest when his friend helps him lift his legs and lie down on his side, but he swipes at Aramis’ hand when he feels his forehead. 

“I don’t have a fever,” he grumbles, wrapping an arm around his aching flank and fighting the urge to cough. Deeply annoyed with himself, he broods over the mechanisms of the human body, blocking pain and weakness during a crisis, but flagging with a vengeance as soon as it’s over.

“And I am grateful you don’t.” Nevertheless, his friend wipes a wet cloth over his face and, just for a moment, Athos closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the relief. _God, he’s so tired_. The cloth, now folded, comes to rest on his aching head, and Athos blinks Aramis into focus.

“What are his chances?” He flicks a questioning gaze in d’Artagnan’s direction. Even with the remaining wheeze on his breath, it’s awfully quiet in the room now. Too quiet.

Dipping his head, Aramis buries his long fingers in his hair. “I really don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“But you’ve seen Lemay do it. And Treville recovered fast.” Athos remembers vividly how their captain almost drowned in his own blood after getting shot in the back; but he also remembers how quickly he was back on his feet.

“This is different.” Aramis’ fingers rake through his dark curls now, tugging. “Treville had a musket ball in his lung. What we’re dealing with is damage from a fire and infection. I _hope_ it’ll save him, but I can’t be sure. I may have made it worse in the end. He has an open wound now. His breathing is better, but if the infection gets worse, if his other lung fills with fluid too...”

Athos unclasps his hand from his stinging side and closes it around Aramis’ arm. “You did everything you could. I trust your instincts.” He swallows a cough. “You should rest now. You haven’t slept at all.”

“No.” Vehemently shaking his head, Aramis stands up from where he’s been perched on Athos’ bed. “No, I need to see to d’Artagnan. And to you. You’re still congested.” He raises a flat hand when Athos opens his mouth to protest. “Don’t tell me you aren’t! I can hear it. And I’m not going to rest until you’re both taken care of. End of discussion.”

And it _is_ the end of the discussion. Athos has seen Aramis like this before - relentless, almost manic, running himself into the ground for an injured brother, and he knows he won’t be able to stop him - and certainly not in his state. When all of this is over, when d’Artagnan is out of the woods, Aramis will retreat to his chambers and sleep - one day, two days, dead to the world, and wake up to plunder Serge’s kitchen. But for now, Athos can only stay out of his way and hope that the God Aramis so fervently believes in will infuse him with the strength he needs. 

If only Porthos were here. The dark-skinned Musketeer, friends already with Aramis when Athos joined the regiment, knows best how to support their medic in times of crisis. His powerful, steady presence is a stronghold that needs no words. While neither a man of knowledge nor of medical skills, Porthos is gifted at knowing how to provide comfort and how to surreptitiously nurse their healer through times when Aramis, single-mindedly focused on a patient, becomes blind to his own needs. 

Athos wishes he possessed more of those instincts, of Porthos’ intuitive nature, not overthinking things like Athos does, not analyzing, simply _doing_ what feels right, no matter how illogical or inefficient it may seem. With Aramis in particular, it takes someone who _feels_ and not someone who _thinks_ to understand what helps best. And the fact that Athos is stuck in a bed, only half himself, unable to physically assist with d’Artagnan’s care, is not exactly helping matters.

“Sit up. Hold this. Careful, it’s hot! Breathe in the fumes.”

Pulling Athos from his thoughts, Aramis helps him sit and places a bowl in his lap, camphorous steam rising sharply from it. 

“It’ll loosen the congestion and ease that urge to cough you’re suppressing all the time.” 

Athos glowers. 

_Intuition_. Porthos isn’t the only one in possession of that uncanny gift.

But Athos accepts the bowl and does as told. Almost immediately, Aramis’ recipe soothes the scratching in his throat and unclenches his chest. Sitting still, in a position that’s relatively bearable, he watches as Aramis putters around the room, brewing, mixing, pouring, exchanging the cold compresses he’s strategically placed on d’Artagnan’s still form, checking the tube.

“How long do you suppose he will be out?” Already, Athos is missing the hum of energy that comes with the Gascon, sorely missing in the hushed atmosphere of the infirmary.

Passing him a cup of tea, Aramis sucks on his lower lip, thinking. “I wish I knew. Part of me is glad that he’s unconscious. He’ll be in a world of pain when he wakes up with the tube still inside him. I hope we can remove it before he does. The other part... “ A soft smirk twitches his mustache. “Well, who would’ve thought I’d ever _yearn_ to hear him prattle on about God knows what.”

Athos huffs. “He likes to talk.” But he says it with a note of affection.

“That he does.” 

Aramis pulls a chair between the two beds, each of them within easy reach, and sits down. From a plate on Athos’ nightstand, he grabs a piece of bread and a fistful of grapes, brought up by an uncommonly friendly Serge earlier, and eats, not like a man who’s worked up an appetite, but like one knowing he requires fuel to operate. 

And so their watch continues. 

 

xxx

 

An indefinite amount of time later, Athos wakes to sounds of pain and murmured comfort. Shocked at having fallen asleep, he sits up with a start, wincing, and blinks cobwebs away. Across from him, Aramis is bent over d’Artagnan, talking softly. All Athos can see of the lad is a trembling leg peeking out from the blanket and his bandaged chest, pumping quick, shallow breaths as the tube, leaking drops of fluid, judders in his side.

“That’s it,” Aramis instructs him soothingly. “Easy. Slow down. You’ve got this.”

“What’s happening?!” Athos is up, teeth gritted, his vision briefly greying as he forces his legs to carry him the few steps across. 

“He’s awake. He’s fine, but a little scared, and the tube’s hurting him.”

As he clings to d’Artagnan’s bedpost, Athos sees how true Aramis’ words are. D’Artagnan is, indeed, wide awake, eyes round and spilling involuntary tears, hair plastered to his face. Clutching Aramis’ hand like a vice, he’s puffing out shallow, pain-filled breaths. When he sees Athos, a woeful sound breaks from his lips. 

“Can’t you pull it out?” Athos shifts one hand to lay it on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “He’s breathing better!”

Athos forces himself to focus on the facts, and not on the heartbreaking expression on his little brother’s face. And he’s right: While the lad’s frantic gasps still grate, his lungs have cleared further while Athos slept.

“No, I can’t.” Aramis’ free hand is on the boy’s forehead, thumb stroking repetitively. “It’s still draining fluid - _easy, d’Artagnan, slow_ \- and if I pull it too early, I’m afraid he’ll lose his air again.”

Outwardly calm, Athos’ insides roil at the thought of watching d’Artagnan suffocate a second time. “Can’t you at least give him something for the pain?”

The medic looks unhappy. “Laudanum will suppress his breathing. And we don’t know what he ingested earlier and whether it’s cleared his body. It’s too risky.”

“What about Sister Marie’s calming draught?” All too well, Athos remembers the agony of his broken jaw and how the healer’s mixture had taken the blinding edge off. 

Aramis weighs his head. “It’s herbal. We can’t be sure what he’s been given, and if it was poison distilled from a plant…” 

Suddenly, d’Artagnan lets go of his hand and, instead, clutches him by the shirt. Eyes flickering with pain, nostrils flaring, his mouth forms a single word: _“Hurts.”_

That decides it. 

“I’ll fetch it.” Gently, Aramis peels d’Artagnan’s fingers off his shirtfront. “Keep that hand away from his side.” 

While Athos takes over, calmly sliding his palm into the boy’s and giving him a sure, steady look that has nothing to do with how he feels inside, Aramis rummages through his medicinal supplies and returns with a glass bottle labeled in the nun’s neat script. 

“Hold on, my friend,” he tells the struggling Gascon, measuring the appropriate amount of medicine onto a spoon. “Relief is on the way.”

For all of their sakes, Athos hopes he’s right.

xxx

 

Sister Marie’s recipe, once again, proves to be a small miracle cure: Shortly after swallowing a spoonful, d’Artagnan calms down considerably, and his breathing evens out. Though still in a visible amount of pain, his jaw unclenches, his hand relaxes in Athos’ grip, and his eyes lose their frantic sheen. 

“Better?” Aramis smiles down at his patient, and it’s the first genuine smile Athos has seen him produce since their return to the garrison. 

“Uh-huh,” d’Artagnan manages hoarsely. “Thank you.”

Athos sees the boy’s braveness. He sees him carefully breathing around the tube jutting from his ribcage, each coarse breath a carefully calculated expansion of his chest, in and out, culminating in a hitch and widening of his eyes every time the small movement triggers a stab of pain. He sees d’Artagnan bite it back, managing the regular ebb and flow of agony which - as Athos well knows - has only become bearable with the drug, but nothing less. Laudanum would provide far better relief, and Athos still wishes they could give it to the lad while, at the same time, being relieved they can’t.

“How are you doing?” Athos inquires quietly.

“Fine.” A cracked, determined one-word answer.

Athos feels a stab of fond pride at the lad’s bravado. Beside him, Aramis chuffs, a smile still playing around his mouth. “ _Fine_ is a bit of a stretch at this point, but I’ll admit it’s good to hear you talk. It’s been a bit … boring here.” Gently, he feels d’Artagnan’s forehead, checking the wound on his temple while he’s at it.

“I’m…” D’Artagnan clears his throat and winces. “I’m not dying anymore?” The brown eyes are large and luminous and very young as he searches both of their faces for clues.

“You’re breathing better, and your temperature is coming down,” Aramis evades. “That is a good sign.”

Athos keeps his face neutral, but he’s registered that the boy’s fever is retreating, and his pupils are back to their normal size. Also, Aramis’ demeanour is less tense, his body uncoiling by degrees - something the medic may not be aware of himself, but indicating that the situation is less dire. Hope stirs in Athos, so undeniable that it almost scares him. Unconsciously, he’d been preparing himself for the worst to happen, for loss so sharp it would cut him down at the knees, and now… Carefully, he takes that hope and nurses it, allowing himself to believe that, after all, he may not have to bury another little brother and move on through a world with a hole cut into it, threatening to swallow him whole.

“The spy? Did you…?” D’Artagnan’s whispered question grounds him again. 

“There’s been no news,” Athos replies, marveling at the young Musketeer’s sense of duty. “Treville sent scouts to Colombé, looking for the governour, but we haven’t heard back from them. They may be following their trail.”

“I found… a letter.” D’Artagnan’s face lights up at the sudden memory, and Athos and Aramis stare at him. 

“A letter?” Athos nudges. “What was in it? Where is it?”

“I’m not...” Swallowing heavily, the Gascon’s brows knit. “I can’t remember. I’m.. I’’m sorry.” 

“You were drugged,” Aramis reminds him gently. “It’s not your fault.”

Athos whirls around to scan the room, regretting it when his back twinges angrily. “Where are his clothes?” 

“You think he had the letter on him?” Aramis inhales sharply. “I gave them to Luc to clean them.”

“We need them.” Stiffly, Athos takes three steps towards the door before Aramis grabs him by the arm and stops him.

“Yes, but I’ll fetch them. You stay with d’Artagnan.”

Frustrated, Athos tips his head back, then nods. Aramis is right. He’ll be quicker, and Athos isn’t entirely sure he would even make it to the laundry and back without passing out along the way. 

_Christ almighty._

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Aramis is already slipping into his jacket. “Make D’Artagnan drink the willow bark tea. It’s in the jug over there.” He points. “But don’t let him sit up! He mustn’t move!”

Athos grunts his assent, gingerly steering back to his own bed to sit for a moment. The pain in his back and belly make it difficult to stand, and his head still hurts, the stitches itching infuriatingly.

Buttoning his jacket, the medic hurries to the door and swings it wide, stepping through - only to collide with a big Musketeer about to enter. Ebony eyes look down on Aramis. Strong hands grab him, but, instead of shoving him back, pull him in for a quick, rib-squashing hug.

“Can’t leave ya alone for a single minute, can I? Anybody care ta tell me wha’ ‘appened to the pup?” 

_Porthos._

Sagging onto the bed, Athos sighs with relief. Backup is here. And it’s exactly the kind they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, sorry for the medical inaccuracies. In real life, in the 17th century, d'Artagnan would almost certainly succumb to his injuries. Even in modern times, he'd need intravenous fluids, antibiotics, oxygen (most likely a ventilator), and a drainage pump. And, very probably, another chest tube in his other lung. 
> 
> In my story, he has Aramis instead. The man who has God on his side and healing hands. Let's all just pretend that's good enough.


	7. Chasing Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter d'Artagnan took finally reveals the Spanish spy's identity. Which does not necessarily improve anyone's mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. The universe has been terrorizing my family with health issues and worry, and I just wasn't in the mood to write. But I've decided channeling my own angst into fic may be a good way to cope. I'm not as focussed as usually, and this chapter went through three re-writes. And took a turn I didn't expect (thanks, Athos...). But it's up, and it's one of the few good things happening in the past two weeks, so cheers and yay and a Musketeer fist pump. Life, it appears, goes on no matter what, both in reality and in the garrison's infirmary. Booyah!

Half an hour later, Athos has brought Porthos up to speed on everything that’s happened. While they wait for Aramis to return, Porthos has taken residence next to d’Artagnan and doesn’t look as if he’s ever going to move away again. Despite the worry the big streetfighter must feel, he exudes an air of unshakeable resolve as he sits on a much-too-small stool and dabs at d’Artagnan’s sweaty face with a cool cloth, grumbling fondly.

“I leave ya alone for a couple days, an’ what d’you do? Get into trouble first chance you get. And _you-_ ” He swings his dark gaze to Athos. “You shoulda watched ‘im better!” 

Offended, Athos glowers back. 

“He got me out,” d’Artagnan protests, his eyes indignant, glossy orbs. “Athos saved my life.”

“‘E never should’ve let you go to Colombé alone. Someone should’ve accompanied you. A Musketeer never goes on a mission without backup.” Porthos is angry, but his words are missing force. It’s a bit of an act, a show of outrage which, Athos knows, covers Porthos’ true emotions: He wasn’t there when d’Artagnan got injured; he wasn’t at his side to prevent what happened. Self-blame. Athos can relate.

“It wasn’t his fault,” d’Artagnan argues faintly. “Treville… He sent me. His orders.” 

A shudder of pain runs through the Gascon as he unsuccessfully tries not to cough, and Athos sees Porthos grimace and eye the bandage and the tube.

“How long’s that thing got to be in ‘im?” One big hand on d’Artagnan’s forehead, he looks at Athos.

“That’s for Aramis to decide,” Athos explains, sighing. He’s sick of seeing the boy in such distress, sick of hearing the panicked, congested gasps as d’Artagnan fights to regain his composure after each coughing spell. “Until the infection clears and he’s over the worst.” And, seeing fear flicker in d’Artagnan’s eyes, he adds quickly: “But I’m confident it will happen soon. He’s been improving.” 

Athos casts the suggestion of a smile in the Gascon’s direction and hopes it’s convincing. D’Artagnan nods shakily. 

Grimacing, Porthos is about to comment when the infirmary door is flung open and Treville storms inside, Aramis in tow.

“Is this the letter you retrieved from the governor’s mansion?” Treville marches to d’Artagnan’s bed and bends over him, ignoring Porthos, his eyes blue flint.

D’Artagnan blinks at the letter and nods. “Yes,” he rasps. “Does it… help?”

A gloved hand settles on his shoulder. “It does, son. It does.” A paternal smile spreads on the captain’s weathered face.

“What does it say? Whose is it?” asks Athos from where he’s gingerly perched on his bed. 

“It’s addressed to the governor and his wife,” Aramis blurts out, excited, “and it holds information on the King’s plans to quell a Huguenot rebellion near the Spanish border. It’s a warning for the Spanish troops stationed close-by.” 

Holding up a hand, Treville cuts Aramis off. “Only someone close to the King or with access to his chambers could have gathered this kind of information and sent it to the governor. The letter was signed with a ‘W’. We need to find out who that person is. We’re compiling a list of everyone in close proximity to the King - his counselors, frequent visitors, even his servants.”

“Can I see?” Premonition tingling his spine, Athos extends his hand, and Treville gives him the letter.

The scent hits him first. Faint, sweet and floral. _It cannot be. It cannot..._ But it is. The familiar perfume clinging to the parchment makes him dizzy. Incredulous, Athos stares at the slanted letters, at the elongated ‘S’, the barely crossed ‘t’s and at the typical curl of the ‘W’. 

“I know who wrote this,” he says hollowly. 

Treville’s eyes bore into him. “Who?”

Athos has to avoid his captain’s eyes, shame surging through him. His stomach clenches, and it’s not his injury causing the pain.

“My wife.”

For a moment, Treville looks utterly thrown. “What?”

“This is her hand,” Athos continues, cringing at the confused and distraught faces of his friends and at the hitch in d’Artagnan’s breath. “I would know it anywhere. The ‘W’ stands for-”

“...Milady de Winter,” Treville finishes for him. He rubs a hand across his face. On it, Athos sees disbelief giving way to dismay, and as horrifying, as _unacceptable_ as the situation feels, he’s grateful that Treville knows about his past. That at least he no longer has to explain himself, no longer has to hide a secret that eats him up inside. 

“I thought she’d left France?” Treville looks suddenly aged.

“We all did,” Aramis says, and Athos feels frighteningly faint when the medic lays a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. 

“Seems we were wrong.” Porthos growls.

D’Artagnan, from his sick bed, looks at Athos in confusion. “But how..?” He swallows hard. “She’s at the Palace? How did we not know?”

Treville scratches his beard. “She could be in disguise. A maid. A seamstress. A servant. Someone no one would notice or pay attention to. Or she could be relaying information from someone else she has working _for_ her at the palace.”

Faint or not, Athos brushes Aramis’ hand off and gets up. “I’ll find her.” 

“Athos…” The medic shakes his head in protest.

“If she’s in Paris… If she’s in the Palace, I need to find her.” Harshness barely conceals the desperation in Athos’ voice. 

“ _You_ are in no fit state to help, lieutenant.” Treville has stepped in Athos’ way. “If I stand correctly informed, you’re still recovering from an internal bleed and you’re not in any position to perform an investigation, let alone pursue a criminal. You will remain in the infirmary and look after yourself. And _that_ is an order.” The captain’s clear gaze pins Athos with the full force of his authority.

But Athos, caught in a miasma of guilt and duty and the inability to just _sit here and do nothing_ , pushes past Aramis and past Treville and past the pain and moves to grab his jacket.

While the rest of them only stare, it’s Porthos who dares to stop him. 

“No.” His dark, large hand closes around Athos’ bicep. 

“Let me go, Porthos!”

“No.” The Musketeer giant shakes his head, sadly, angrily. “No, you’re no’ doin’ this. Not to us. Not to yourself.” His black eyes soften without shedding their determination. “We almos’ lost the lad. We’re no’ losin’ you ‘cause you can’t listen. She’s dangerous. You’re in no state to take it up with ‘er. You’re stayin’. We’ll take it from ‘ere.”

Athos sways in Porthos’ grasp. He fights the urge to hit him. Fights tears. It’s all too much - d’Artagnan almost dying, his own injuries, and now _she_ is behind it all - , and if he wasn’t used to this, to covering up the internal carnage, his knees would buckle, but they don’t. Instead, under four pairs of worried and scrutinous eyes, he wills his own to stay dry and wills his legs to remain steady and his brain to think.

They’re right. Anne is a slippery ghost. A monster in beautiful and treacherous disguise. Magnetic and sly and ruthless. Even if he finds her, at the Palace or somewhere in Paris’ underbelly, he will be no match for her strength and her wickedness. He barely is when uninjured. He certainly isn’t now. Instead, he will put himself, his brothers, the King, _France_ in danger if he finds her and lets her get away.

“All right,” he says eventually, hating himself for it. “I’ll stay. But you _will_ keep me posted.”

The look he gives Porthos must be more threatening than intended, for he sees the mighty Musketeer blink, and the powerful hand releases him.

“Of course we will. You know you c’n trust us.” Black, warm eyes hold his. Reassuring. Strong and gentle. 

It breaks Athos’ resistance.

“I know.” Disarmed, Athos nods. His legs, never steady to begin with, suddenly threaten to give, and immediately two sets of hands have him - Aramis and Porthos - and help him back to his bed.

“Aramis! You stay with him, and with d’Artagnan!” Treville’s bark sounds worried. “Porthos, you’re with me! Don’t talk to anyone else about this. Milady de Winter must not be warned! We ride to the Palace immediately.”

And then they’re out the door, Treville and Porthos, coats swishing and weapons belts clinking, and Athos wants to throw up and curse the whole world and not feel the way he feels. But instead, when Aramis gently slips a steaming mug into his hands, he clenches his fingers around it and stares at the floorboards, avoiding d’Artagnan’s sorry, pain-filled gaze.

 

XXX

 

“Nothing?!”

Athos has to force himself to keep the fury out of his voice.

“Nah,” Porthos says, frustrated. “She’s not in the Palace. No one’s seen ‘er - or recognized her, that is. There’s a chamber maid who didn’t show up for work today. She cleans the King’s chambers. Might be ‘er. Or not.”

Raking through his hair, Athos gets up from his bed and paces in careful circles. His belly and back still hurt, but he needs to move.

“She’s gone. I knew it.” 

“Someone must’ve warned her.” Aramis has his hands on his hips. His shoulders sag. 

Athos shakes his head. “Or she heard about the governor. About the fire. That Treville’s looking for him. It would have been enough for her to suspect her position was compromised.” His fingers find the healing wound at the back of his head and press at the small row of sutures, intentionally causing pain. “No,” he says, angry and beaten. “No, she’s gone.”

“Well, we’ll keep lookin’.” Porthos juts his chin in defiance. “We’re dispersin‘ a drawing of ‘er to all Musketeers. The cap’n is sendin’ troops swarmin’ out all over Paris. If she’s still ‘ere, we’ll find ‘er.” The fact that Porthos unbuckles his weapons belt and discards it on an unoccupied cot belies his confident words. 

In truth, Athos isn’t surprised. Anne is a spectre. She’s slipped through Death’s own fingers. How could she be caught by human ones? No. She is going to haunt him till the end of his days. And, with a strange feeling of acceptance, Athos thinks that he deserves it.

“It’s not your fault, Athos.” D’Artagnan’s voice, softness wrapped in sandpaper, cuts through his thoughts. Cuts right into him, because, yes, it is _indeed_ his fault. All of it. He created her. He spared her and set her loose, and it almost, it _still may_ cost d’Artagnan his life.

“I know you think that.” Athos can barely look at the sick Gascon, stripped of his vigor, his youthful strength sapped. “But you’re wrong.”

“Athos…” Aramis shakes his head at him. “We’ve been through this before. You can’t blame yourself.”

And then Porthos’ warm hand is at the nape of his neck, squeezing gently, stopping his pacing. “Let it go, Athos. Let it go.”

To his own horror, Athos feels tears well up in his eyes, and he roughly wipes at his face. Without comment, Porthos’ hand squeezes his neck again.

“I know ‘e’s injured ‘is belly,” Porthos says to Aramis. “But can ‘e ‘ave somethin’ ta drink? Wine?”

“Ale,” Aramis replies softly. “He can have ale. Wine’s too strong.”

“Then get ‘im some.” Porthos’ hands gently push Athos into a chair as he speaks, and Athos lets himself be manhandled, too worn out to protest.

“I know that tea you’re givin’ ‘im is supposed ta help.” Disgustedly, Porthos wrinkles his nose at the mug on Athos’ nightstand. “But it smells like horse piss. An’ I bet it tastes like it, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't at all intended to make Milady the Spanish spy. It was supposed to be some unknown Palace servant, and our Muskie boys were supposed to catch him and arrest him in this chapter. But I started this story off with Athos having déjà vus of Milady returning, and, half-way through this chapter, I couldn't resist tapping into that idea again. Which is why this chapter swerved from d'Artagnan h/c into Athosian angst.   
> And, to clarify things: This story is set pre-season two-ish, so the King (or anyone else at the Palace) doesn't know Milady yet (but Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan and Treville know who she is). Which makes it at least feasible that she'd spy around at the Palace in a chamber maid's disguise, paid by the Spanish and with the governor in on the whole scheme, even if it's a stretch and a really stupid thing to do. *shrugs*


	8. The Play of Light and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the search for Milady is ongoing, things at the imfirmary are finally looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading through my finished chapter, I realized I could take the easy way out and just leave it here. But I won't. We're not done yet, and I don't do easy.

As Athos suspected, the search for Anne yields no useful results. There are Parisiens who think they’ve seen a woman looking like the one on the drawing the Musketeer patrols pass around, and a landlord in Saint Germain complains about a female tenant disappearing without paying their full rent; upon investigation, the apartment concerned is empty except for a dried bouquet of little blue flowers left on the empty bed. _Myosotis gallica_. Athos feels the stab. She might as well have left a knife.

At least at the garrison infirmary, with Porthos back, things seem to be improving. He’s brought with him an unwavering steadfastness which they all lean on gratefully - d’Artagnan and Athos in the most literal sense: The Gascon rides out his coughing spells clinging to Porthos’ hands and arms and shirt as his muscles spasm around the tube in his side; for Athos, the big musketeer’s shoulders serve as a crutch during short, painful trips outside, to the outhouse, to wash up or to catch a breath of fresh air. In Aramis’ case, Porthos’ support is both physical and spiritual: The medic lets himself be bullied into breaks and regular meals, his friend’s calm strength fortifying his own with his mere presence. 

Fear, that deafening scream in Athos’ head, quiets down to a disconcerting voice that he can manage. D’Artagnan’s excruciating coughing fits become more bearable to witness now that Porthos shares the weight of caring for him. The steam-filled, permanent dusk in the infirmary brightens, just like the dark circles under Aramis’ eyes who, finally, catches some much-needed sleep while Porthos keeps watch, his deep voice filling the room with warmth and comfort.

Waking from a nap (he _naps_ now, and it infuriates him, but he can’t help it), Athos, disentangling himself from a confusing dream of fire and hoofbeats and the smell of rain, marvels at the impact of their reunion. It’s not so much Porthos himself who makes things less _wrong_ , he thinks. It’s all of them being together; no one missing. As different as they are, as hard as it sometimes is: They complement each other. They _complete_ each other. It’s a realization that floors Athos a bit: Together, they are a line of defense almost impossible to penetrate; apart, they are vulnerable, their Achilles heels exposed. Brotherhood, Athos understands, comes at a price. But to his own surprise, it’s become one he’s willing to pay.

Fate itself, it seems, does not want to mess with Porthos’ resolve. When Athos wakes after a relatively restful night, he opens his eyes to find Aramis perched over d’Artagnan, listening to his chest and ordering him to breathe as deeply as he can.

“What’s wrong?” Athos sits up in alarm.

“Nothing.” Cheerfulness rings in Aramis’ voice. Triumph on his face, he points at d’Artagnan’s bandaged chest. “On the contrary,” he says. “Good news: That tube is ready to come out.” 

In response, d’Artagnan closes his eyes and emits a heartbreaking noise of relief, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. 

“‘E’s out of the woods?” A grin tugs at Porthos’ moustache. As ever, he’s folded himself onto the stool between d’Artagnan’s and Athos’ sickbeds.

“Yes. I think he is.” 

Aramis is beaming now, and a weight drops from Athos’ shoulders. 

“Are you sure?” He hears the tremor in his own voice. 

“Yes.” Aramis’ even teeth shine white in his swarthy face, relief and joy wiping the tiredness from it. “And it seems you’re improving as well.” He points at the hateful chamber pot under Athos’ bed that Aramis made him use during the night. “Your kidney bleed is clearing up.” 

Porthos laughs at Athos’ embarrassed scowl. But it’s true: The ache in his back and belly have lessened and he can move better. The nausea, too, is receding. 

“Can you pull it out now?”

From his pillow, d’Artagnan gives Aramis a pleading look. He still looks a bit colourless, a bit sweaty and diminished, but his breathing sounds much less laboured, and the feverish sheen has left his eyes. 

Elation washes through Athos. He’d sensed the lad improving. But caution had kept him from believing what Aramis is now confirming: d’Artagnan is going to live. The fire hasn’t won. Death hasn’t won. Not this time. Not with this little brother. 

“Yes, we can do it now.” Rolling up his sleeves, Aramis unfolds his medical kit which, among other things, holds a clean needle and thread. “It’s going to be a short moment of pain, and then I’ll have to put in a few stitches. Are you ready for that?”

Bravado lays itself over d’Artagnan’s worn-out features: a trace of the fiery Gascon who is about to return. “More than ready,” he says resolutely.

“Then let’s get it over with,” says Aramis. “Porthos?” He waves at the big Musketeer and directs him how to hold d’Artagnan’s arm out of the way. “If you’ll oblige?”

A few brave minutes and four stitches later, and the world has righted itself a bit further. Seated across from an exhausted but very relieved d’Artagnan who is about to doze off, Athos feels lighter. Anne is still hovering around the edges of his consciousness. She’s come back. She’s never going to set him free. They’re never going to catch her. But d’Artagnan will be fine. Aramis has worked a miracle. The brotherhood is intact. For now, that is good enough.

XXX

Two days later, a group of musketeers rides through the garrison gates followed by a cart carrying prisoners: bound and gagged, the former governor and his wife are being jostled about in the back, looking undignified and defeated. 

Summoned by the noise, Treville emerges from his office and and hurries down the stairs to welcome the returning party. Athos, promoted from bed rest to sitting outside in the sun, sees satisfaction and pride spread on his captain’s face.

“Musketeers!” Saluting his men, Treville addresses the leader of the patrol: “Good work. Where did you find them?”

“Two days rides from Colombé, on their way south-west, heading for Spain.” Lucas, a hawk-nosed musketeer from the south, slides elegantly from his horse. “We found their trace at an inn and then followed their trail. Apprehended them in a small village called Meaux-en-Bois. They made a stand, but…” Lucas waves his hand dismissively about, making it clear that the confrontation, from a musketeer’s point of view, had been child’s play.

Proudly, Treville gives Lucas’ men an appreciative nod. 

“Well done. Lucas, I’ll expect you in my office for a full report after you’ve transported our prisoners to the Bastille and handed them over to the guards. Don’t let them out of your sight until they’re under lock and key. Dismissed.” A new energy to his step, the captain walks back upstairs, to his vantage point overlooking the garrison.

With the appropriate amount of rude manhandling, the governor and his wife are shoved from the cart and bundled into a carriage with barred windows and heavy locks. Lucas isn’t taking any chances on their way through the crowded streets of Paris. When the carriage leaves, surrounded by a fresh entourage of well-armed musketeers and under Treville’s hawk-eyed supervision, Athos pushes himself to his feet and climbs the stairs to join his superior. Still out of shape, he has to use the handrail to master the steps and wheezes a little when he reaches the top, his leathers and weapons seemingly having doubled in weight since he wore them last. Aramis said it’ll pass with time, but Athos can’t help thinking that this particular adventure has aged him.

“What now?” he asks Treville, leaning heavily against the wooden railing.

Nodding at his second in command to follow, Treville heads to his office. “Now I’ll let the Palace now about the suspects’ arrest. They’ll be interrogated. Hopefully, we’ll learn more about their communication routes, about Milady’s involvement and about their contact on the Spanish side. It’s possible they know Milady de Winter’ whereabouts.”

“But not very likely,” Athos comments. 

Treville’s eyes grow thin. “No, not very. But we will try to find her.”

Athos huffs. “She’s long gone.”

“We can’t be sure. She’s been bold before. After everything you told me, I wouldn’t put it past her to remain in Paris and see how this plays out. To make certain the governor and his wife don’t incriminate her any further.” 

“You’re putting them under heavy guard. By people you trust?” 

Athos doesn’t have to elaborate. There is no need to explain how dangerous Anne is; that, although the traitors will be executed, and soon, she may try to shut them up before they can even start talking, no matter how little they know. 

Treville nods darkly. “The most trustworthy men I know.” But he cannot conceal a note of doubt in his voice. Anne is a master manipulator, and she has her minions everywhere.

Inside his office, the captain pulls up a chair and indicates for Athos to sit. “She’s going to make a mistake one day, Athos. And then we’ll catch her.”

Sitting down wearily, Athos dips his head. The captain means well, but he doesn’t think they will ever catch Anne. Worse, he’s not entirely sure he _wants_ them to. Glass clinks, and when he looks up, a thick tumbler with a fingerbreadth of amber liquid is placed into his hands. The perfume of fine brandy ascends to his nose. 

“How are you, son?”

The captain sits down across from him, behind his tidy desk, that sharp blue gaze examining him closely.

“I’m fine,” Athos says, almost reflexively. “My injuries are healing. I will be fit for duty in a matter of days.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant.” Treville folds his hands on his desk. 

Athos narrows his eyes. “I’m fine,” he repeats, coating his words in a layer of coolness. As much as he appreciates his mentor’s worry, he is not going to discuss Anne’s impact on his personal state of mind. Beyond her role as a spy and enemy of France, that is none of Treville’s business. 

Treville sighs. But to Athos’ relief, he doesn’t insist on encroaching further. Instead, a different kind of concern wrinkles the captain’s face. 

“And d’Artagnan?” he inquires. “How’s the lad doing?”

Welcoming the subject change, Athos weighs his head. 

“Better. But recovery takes time, and patience isn’t his strongest suit. Aramis has his hands full.”

Athos feels his lips stretch into a minuscule smile and sees the same effect on the captain’s face. During the last two days, the young Gascon has been improving at an astonishing rate. Without the tube forcing him into stillness, in less pain, he’s been tossing in his bed, his former apathy transitioning to boredom, and if it weren’t for his persistent cough and Porthos’ intimidating glares, he would already be trying to stalk out of bed. Employing a different strategy to keep him resting, Aramis took his boots and leathers and hid them in an undisclosed location.

Treville slaps his desk in a gesture of victory. “Aramis has worked a miracle.”

“That he has.” Athos nods and takes a sip from his glass. Sharp warmth fills his chest and stomach. “Doctor Lemay agrees.”

The King’s physician, returned from his secretive mission, had hastened to the garrison upon hearing about the two injured musketeers and Aramis’ Hail Mary surgery. Impressed and curious, he’d thoroughly examined d’Artagnan, added medicine and diet suggestions to the treatment plan but otherwise generously admitted that he couldn’t have done any better. That, in fact, Aramis’ had performed a pioneering procedure which would serve to save more lives in the future. 

“How long until d’Artagnan can resume his duties?” Treville empties his glass.

Putting his own down on the desk, Athos brushes his too-long hair out of his face. He’s going to need to ask Constance to give it a trim. 

“Hard to say,” he repeats what Aramis told him earlier. “His lungs need time to heal, but Aramis doesn’t think he can keep him in the infirmary for more than another week. Once the stitches come out and he’s strong enough to hold a sword, there will be no stopping the fool.” He says it fondly.

Treville’s thin lips curl into a smile of amusement.

“Watch out for him, Athos,” he then says paternally. “You will both need time to recover. I’ll need you back at full capacity soon, but for now… Take time to heal. And I don’t want to see _you_ back at morning muster for another week at least.”

Athos opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it and, instead, asks begrudgingly: “I assume that’s an order?”

“You assume correctly, lieutenant.” Smirking, Treville gets up and stands; a signal for Athos to take his leave. 

Warm from the brandy, but his body leaden, Athos hoists himself up and draws his heels together, indicating a little bow. 

“Captain.”

“Lieutenant.”

His weapons belt clinking familiarly about him, he leaves and returns to the infirmary where a much-suffering Aramis is turning a deaf ear to d’Artagnan’s complaints about being treated like a _bloody prisoner_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now will you look at that! Barely any angst in this one (okay, a liiiittle, but Athos doesn't do unaduleterated comfort; it's not in him), and both Treville and Athos smile _several times_! I had meant to end this chapter on a more sinister note and with a different scene, but this is where it went, and we can leave the angst for next time, right?


	9. Moth To A Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan continues his recovery and Athos has a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this took forever! Life has been busy (in a good way), and I went through a bit of writer's block as well (which happens, and it always passes). Two days ago, the writing muse returned and I've been typing like crazy ever since, finishing _two_ new chapters in a row. Which means that I can guarantee you that the chapter after this will go up in a few days instead of letting you hang for months. Again - sorry. 
> 
> Also, as they are wont to do, my Muskie characters went rogue on me and took this story in a direction I wasn't expecting. *shrugs* Nothing I can do about it.

“I agree.” After a last assessing look at the fading bruise on Athos’ back, Aramis gives him a satisfied pat on the shoulder and hands him his shirt. 

“There’s no reason for you to stay in the infirmary. You can go home.”

“If he can go, I can go!” 

An indignant outcry from d’Artagnan. He’s sat up in bed, blanket and sheet bunched between his legs, pillows askew, one naked foot on the floor, ready to stand. 

“No, you can’t.” Thin-worn patience gives a bit of an edge to Aramis’ objection. “You’re not ready yet.”

“But I am! See?” 

The Gascon untangles himself from the sheets and gets up, managing a mildly hunched-over posture and a distorted grin that doesn’t fool anybody.

“Ya look like ya bit on a lemon,” Porthos comments wryly.

“D’Artagnan…,” Aramis sighs in exasperation. “Sit down before you fall over.”

Athos contributes a thick-browed, silent glare to the tribunal.

“Oh come on,” d’Artagnan whines. “My wound’s healing, my head’s better, and I’m barely cough-” His breath catches on that last word and his face reddens as he fights - and fails - to hold a coughing fit inside that punches up from his lungs. It doesn’t sound nearly as frightening as before and passes quickly, but by the end of it, d’Artagnan is sitting again, curled up around his sore ribs and swearing through gritted teeth.

“That’s settled then.” 

Face unmoved, Athos proceeds to tuck his shirt into his trousers and slips into his jacket. D’Artagnan glowers at him hatefully, then redirects his contempt at Aramis who, not without smugness, passes him a glass of water, clearly biting back an _I told you so._

“Sorry, pup.” Porthos clucks his tongue. “Looks like you’re stuck ‘ere.” 

He gives d’Artagnan an apologetic smirk before he dons his hat and readjusts his cloak. A blue sash is wrapped around his waist, under his weapons belt, and his boots are polished to a sheen.

“Palace duty?” d’Artagnan asks between brooding sips of water, envy in his voice.

“Yup. Standin’ aroun’, gettin’ sore feet an’ trynna ta fall asleep.”

“I’d swap with you.” D’Artagnan wallows.

“I’ll take ya up on that nex’ time.” Tipping his hat, Porthos turns to look at Athos. “Walk ya home? ‘S on the way.”

In the old days, Athos would have refused the offer. Always a bit of a loner, he is still someone who doesn’t need company all the time, and after being cooped up in the infirmary with the others, he longs for some time on his own. But these aren’t the old days. Like Aramis, Porthos just spent days caring for him, selflessly, relentlessly, in complete disregard of his own needs. The big musketeer can’t have slept much, and even on his dark skin, shadows are evident under his eyes. But there hasn’t been a single word of complaint or a request for a day off, and Athos is not going to insult his brother by pushing him away ungratefully. 

“Yup,” he confirms with deliberate casualness and grabs his own hat. “Let’s go.”

Leaving the room behind Porthos, he has to smile when he hears d’Artagnan’s puzzled voice behind them: 

“Aramis? Have you seen my boots? And where are my trousers?”

 

XXX

Porthos fills the walk to Athos’ lodgings with good-natured chatter, and Athos is grateful that the big musketeer doesn’t expect more than an occasional huff or nod from him in reply. As much as he would like to deny it, he’s still not fully recovered. By the time they arrive at Rue Ferou, he feels out of breath, his boots are heavy weights on his feet, and he’s begun to sweat.

Inconspicuously, Porthos’ large hand supports his elbow as they make their way up the stairs to his apartment. 

“You gonna be alrigh’?” Porthos’ dark eyes narrow doubtfully once they’ve arrived at Athos door and he leans against the frame, breathing audibly.

“Yes.” Athos nods, heart beating too fast in his chest. “Thanks.”

Once more raking him with a worried gaze, Porthos finally dips his head and readjusts his hat. 

“Look after you’self.” 

Athos nods again.

And then Porthos leaves, his heavy tread making the wooden steps groan and creak until the building’s front door falls shut with a much-suffering bang.

Athos sighs deeply as he pushes away from the wall and unlocks his door. All he wants to do is sleep, and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck registers too late for him to react. Something cold and hard presses against his temple. He freezes.

“Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.” 

Her breath feels icy against his sweat-dampened neck. Silk rustles and her perfume envelops him as she moves even closer and whispers into his ear: “Drop your weapons.”

For a second, he considers resistance. He could swivel around, ducking, and ram her into the wall before she can even get a shot off. It’d be risky - she’s fast, gifted with the reflexes of a predator, and she doesn’t have a conscience that would stop her from pulling the trigger. But even under normal conditions, she’s a match to his own skills, and today he is weak and slow and not as interested in ending with a bullet in his brain as he used to be.

He lifts his hands to indicate his surrender, then he slowly lowers them to his waist to unbuckle his weapons belt. Sword, dagger, musket and gunpowder fall to the floor with a disheartening clunk and clatter. 

“Walk to your bed. _Slowly._ ”

Carefully, he sets one foot in front of the other, the musket’s muzzle a painful ring against his temple, her hair brushing his shoulder, her closeness _burning_ in the murky darkness of the shuttered room. 

“Anne,” he says cautiously. “What do you want from me?”

“Quiet,” she replies roughly, the metal of the gun digging deeper into his skin. “You can talk when I tell you to. Sit.”

She shoves him, swinging around to face him and taking a few steps back as he drops awkwardly onto the bed. The musket is trained on his chest now, and he knows she won’t miss.

Anne is a sceptre of dark green silk and milky skin, a thin stripe of sunlight that falls through the shutters crossing her figure in a diagonal line. Her eyes, a feline green, glitter in the semi-darkness as one gloved hand unerringly points the deadly weapon at him. Athos can see her teeth, her full lips parted to reveal her incisors.

“There is a chain and a metal collar behind your back,” she snarls. “Shackle yourself. Now.”

Probing, Athos’ hands come upon a sturdy iron chain that, as he sees when he turns his head, is fastened to a large ring above the head of his bed which usually holds a torch. The metal clinks when he brings around a shiny silver collar attached to the chain, an opened padlock with key dangling from one of the clasps that close it. Athos stares at the grotesque fusion between a piece of jewelry and a torture device.

“That’s right,” Anne states cooly. “It goes around your neck. I thought you would appreciate the irony.” She readjusts her grip on the gun and flicks her head at him. “Go on. Do it!”

Hesitantly, Athos places the band around his neck. It’s too tight when he brings the clasps together at the back of his neck and fiddles the padlock through the holes. He halts, fighting the sensation of being strangled. The collar isn’t heavy, but it leaves him barely enough room to breathe, and the chain is short, forcing him to sit upright close to the wall. If he moves, he will choke himself.

“Lock it.” Anne’s voice is sharp and vengeful.

Glaring at her, Athos clicks the padlock shut and turns the small key. It’s delicate and also made of silver. Having this made must have cost her a small fortune. Immediately, he swallows and has to fight a surge of panic when his Adam’s apple strains against the collar. 

“It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it?” Anne has stepped a little closer, but the musket remains pointed at him. “Not being able to swallow, that tightening of the throat as you struggle to breathe. I’ll give you a tip: panic makes it worse.”

There is no retort he can give her. He forces himself to take slow, deep breaths and tries to adjust to the vice-like sensation. Old images of the noose closing around Anne’s neck flood him, unbidden. Her defiance while she held his damning, tortured gaze. There had been no fear.

“The key, Athos”.

He throws it at her and she catches it easily with one hand.

“Now take the rope and bind your feet.”

Trying to move as little as possible, Athos reaches for the length of rope that lies coiled on his mattress, one end firmly tied to the bed frame. He has no idea what she’s planning, how this will end, and he is too distracted by the suffocating pressure against his throat to think. Groping around clumsily, trying not to lean forward, he manages to wind the rope around and between his ankles and tie it. Spots dance in his vision as he lets himself fall back and fights for air.

“Now your hands.” The voice is merciless. “Extend your arms, wrists together. If you attack me, I _will_ kill you.”

Through watering eyes, Athos sees her approaching the bed, cautious and stunning. He has to will his fingers to stop groping at the band around his throat and follow her orders. The idea of fighting her is ridiculous and, for the first time, the thought crosses his mind that he deserves this. While she binds his hands with more rope and ties the end to his ankles, effectively immobilizing him, Athos looks at the scar on her neck and wonders if his will look the same when this is over - if she lets him live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before the Historical Correctness SWAT team swoops in and arrests me: Forgive me if padlocks hadn't been invented yet. But I had to find a way to have Athos shackle himself, and this was my solution. I'm pretty sure there was a proficient blacksmith around who was ahead of his time. Or a time traveller recently escaped from the Outlander fandom.


	10. Once Bitten, Twice Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Milady have a heart-to-heart under unusual conditions. It isn't pleasant for Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm clearly beginning to struggle when it comes to finding chapter titles associated with "fire". Which is an indication that I should wrap this story up soon.

Done tying him up, Anne looks down at Athos, satisfied, and the fierceness she’s always carried in her makes his heart lurch. 

“What do you want,” he croaks, his vocal chords straining against the confinement.

“Have a conversation without having to worry you’ll kill me,” she says nonchalantly. She fastens the musket to her dress - a gorgeous affair of green silk and black lace - and strides back and forth while talking to him. “And to find out what you’ve learned about my… activities. What that buffoon from Gascony told you. Although it can’t have been much. He shouldn’t have been able to remember.”

“It was _you_ who poisoned him?” Rage flares in Athos’ chest.

“No,” she replies vehemently. “I didn’t. I provided the drug. I didn’t give it to him.”

Slowly, as Athos regains control over his body, his thinking becomes clearer. When he doesn’t move and keeps the chain as slack as possible, he can draw in enough air to function. And to put two and two together.

“But you were there,” he rasps. “You _were_ at the governor’s mansion that night. You instructed them what to do. To drug him. Burn the place down to destroy all evidence if necessary.”

“I arrived when d’Artagnan was already there and snooping around. I didn’t stay. But it was clear that he had to be stopped from exposing them. Exposing _me._ ”

Athos remembers what d’Artagnan told him. “Were you the messenger he saw?”

Anne purses her red lips. “More resilient than I thought, your little Gascon. He was able to recall my arrival? What else did he tell you?”

Athos, swallowing with effort, wipes his face blank and says nothing.

“Ah,” Anne says, amused. “You won’t say. The bravery of a Musketeer. Well, let’s find out how far that bravery goes.”

And then she steps in, one elegant hand grabbing the chain behind him and pulling on it, yanking his head up as if the trapdoor of a scaffold had just opened beneath him. He chokes.

“What else did he tell you? What do you know?!”

 _Air. He needs air._ Heat rises to his face, everything seems to _bulge_ as he wheezes and the ropes bite into his wrists and the metal compresses his larynx and - _God_ \- he cannot _breathe!_ Blackness nips at him when, finally, the pressure decreases and he coughs and gulps and realizes that Anne has let the chain go.

“What do you know? Tell me or I swear I _will_ strangle you!”

_Would she really?_

As Athos blinks back tears and fills his burning lungs with precious air, he wonders. Yes, Anne is ruthless. Whatever soul she once possessed was wrung out of her when she dangled from the rope of a tree. _He_ did that. But, looking at her, bent over him, waiting for answers, he sees something in her bright eyes that doesn’t concur with the threats spilling from her beautiful mouth. An eerie, demonic green, there’s a trace of hurt and softness in her gaze that she cannot quite conceal; not from him. 

“Why does it con-” He coughs again. “...concern you what we know? I don’t believe you care about the Huguenot rebellion, about the governour, or about who sits on the French throne, for that matter. I know you. All you care about is getting _paid_.”

She gives him an angry shove that makes him tilt sideways, his own weight pulling the chain tight, and, wheezing, he struggles back into a position that allows him to breathe again.

“What else do I have left to care about?” She stands defiantly, arms crossed in front of her chest. “You took everything from me.”

That is not true. Not entirely. But her words cause the familiar pang of guilt to run through him. Of loss. Hers. His. Theirs. After all this time, after leaving his old life behind and becoming a Musketeer, he’d still give everything - _everything_ \- to go back to how they were before. Before he knew that she was a fraud. Before she killed his brother. Before violence and lies smothered the love he’s sure they both felt for each other, so much love that, in spite of all that’s happened, it still wants to rekindle every time they meet. He can see it in her eyes, too. 

“I am sorry.” 

The words pass his lips before he can stop them. Their effect is unexpected: Anne gasps, and her face falls. It reminds him of the moment in La Fère, where, flames licking at the walls around them, she held a blade to his throat and discovered the necklace with the forget-me-not he was wearing. Her expression had been similar - shocked, disarmed, _loving._

It’s the same effect he sees now. The hate drops from her features like a mask. She looks around as if she’s lost something, thrown by his apology. Then she gasps again, her bosom heaving in her stays, and she sits down on the bed beside him. A shaky, silken hand cups his cheek. 

“Oh, Athos…” Sadness echoes in her voice. And, much worse, _love_. “What has become of us? What have we done to each other?”

He almost laughs at the irony of her words. She has him chained to the wall, near-strangled in a mock version of her own hanging at his hands. The answer to her question is easy: They have become parodies of themselves. They are ghosts trying to kill what should already be dead. 

“Get out of here, Anne,” he tells her, because that is what his battered heart tells him to say. “Get out of Paris or they’ll catch you. They’ll hang you, and I can’t stop them.”

In spite of the collar biting into his throat, he leans forward, and she meets him halfway, their foreheads connecting. 

“Then tell me what they know, Athos! If they’re on my trail.”

Athos closes his eyes, feeling her against him. When he opens them again, he’s made a decision he will regret until the end of his life, but he cannot, _will not_ pass another death sentence over her.

“They know that you’ve been spying for the Spanish. At the palace." He pauses to catch his breath. "They don’t know how or in what disguise - a maid, a servant or something else -, but d’Artagnan..." Another strained breath. "... he found a letter at the governor’s residence that had your signature on it.”

Anne sits back and snorts derogatorily. “A servant. Me? They don’t know me very well, do they?”

“Then how…”

“I have my minions at the palace.”

Athos frowns. “You were only... relaying information?”

“Gathering and analyzing what was delivered to me and passing it on to my employers. Yes.”

Her hand has released his cheek. The mask is back in place and she is all business and control again. 

“Does Treville know my whereabouts?”

Athos carefully shakes his head. “No. But they found the apartment you’d already vacated. Leaflets with your face on it have been disseminated." His voice is barely above a whisper now. His throat is burning. "Paris knows... what you look like. Patrols are searching the _quartiers_ as we speak. And the governor and his wife have been apprehended and are being.... interrogated in the Bastille." He draws a tortured breath. "It won’t be long until they find out where you’re hiding.”

Anne huffs. “You still underestimate me.” Playfully pinching his cheek, she stands and smoothes her dress. “And even if the governor _knew_ where I currently reside - he can’t tell them anymore. Neither can she.”

Stunned, Athos can only stare at her and process the coldness of her statement. 

“What… what have you done?”

She smiles at him, completely composed. “I haven’t done anything. But as I said - I have my minions.” After a moment of reveling in his shocked reaction, she adds: “Anything else?”

Fury surges in Athos. Again, he’s let her get under his skin. The spell she has over him - it still holds, and he wonders if he’s been played or if the emotions she showed a moment ago were genuine. 

_He is such a fool._

Panting desperately, he asks her the one question that is left to ask, even if her answer doesn’t really matter. 

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Looking appalled, she leans over him again and lifts his chin with her hand. “Oh, Athos,” she says with cloying sweetness. “Why would I kill you when all I have to do is wait. A musket ball. A blade. Too much wine. Death will find you without my assistance. And I don’t even think you will mind.”

With that, she gives him a kiss and, his brain screaming for oxygen, he leans in and opens his mouth to hers. He feels the tip of her tongue teasing his, his body reacting to her like kindle to a flame. The silver band is crushing his windpipe. Her face blurs in front of him as he runs out of air, her lips still sealed to his and her hands buried in his hair. When blackness takes him, Athos barely cares whether it’s oblivion or death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Oxygen wasn't a thing yet in the 17th century, but I couldn't use "air" in the same paragraph twice, could I?
> 
> And I hope you weren't expecting a gruesome torture scene. I don't see Milady as purely evil. She's a devil, but I'm convinced that she loves Athos deeply, even when she hates him. And like Athos, I can never tell when she's being honest or not. I hope I brought that idea across.
> 
> Also - have you ever felt like you couldn't breathe or swallow? It's a terrifying experience, and I am sorry (not sorry) for putting Athos through it, but I couldn't resist a little revenge play on Anne's hanging. After all, what goes around comes around, right?


	11. Heat Of Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos tries to get out of his precarious situation by himself.

When Athos regains consciousness, he’s alone, but Anne’s perfume lingers and daylight is still filtering through the blinds. Not much time has passed. He is still tied up, but the collar is gone from his throat, _thank God_. His neck feels bruised and swollen and a little sticky; the metal must have rubbed it raw. But he can swallow and he can breathe unrestricted. 

_Is she really gone?_

Athos pricks his ears and stretches his senses, feeling for her presence. No. She’s not here any more, and he fears and hopes that, this very moment, she is sneaking past the patrols and leaving Paris never to return.

Craning his sore neck, he tests his bindings. Anne must have redone them while he was out. They’re tighter than before, with firm knots out of his fingers’ reach. Without a knife, it’ll take forever to loosen them. When he looks around in the vain hope of something sharp within grasping range, he sees something glinting on a stool by his bed. The collar. She’s left it for him. As a reminder, as a perverse gift, as a signet of her control over him? Looking at the silver band, he realizes that he would be dead now had she not removed it when he lost consciousness. His own limp weight would have increased the pressure and closed up his airway. He would’ve hung himself, and she could have let it happen. 

_But she didn’t._

She didn’t, and Athos wants to kick himself for the small surge of ill-placed affection that he feels at the realization. She is a murderer, the governor and his wife most likely her recent victims, even if not by her own hands. The maid that disappeared from the palace - did Anne kill her as well? D’Artagnan almost died because of Anne’s instructions. The body count she leaves behind is beyond forgiveness. The monster he created is past salvation.

_And still. And still…_

Longingly, Athos glances at the crate of wine bottles sitting beside his writing desk. He hasn’t been drunk in months and hasn’t missed it, but he wishes he could empty the whole crate into him now and slink back into oblivion. However, a shred of his ingrained sense of duty remains intact, and he lowers his head between his knees to attack the rope around his wrists with his teeth. He could shout for help, of course. But this is Paris in the middle of the day, the noise of the city clamouring around the building he’s caught in, and it’s unlikely anyone will heed his cries for help. His neighbours, used to his drunken ravings, will dismiss any shouting from upstairs. 

And then there’s repentance. He has shared privileged information with Anne, aiding in her escape. He didn’t try to stop her. Tréville will string him up by his boots. He could be court-martialled for this.

No. He deserves this. He deserves every fingernail and every tooth that freeing himself is going to cost him in the hours to come. He deserves all of it.

 

XXX

 

As night falls, Athos is about to start screaming after all. His wrists are rubbed raw from trying to wriggle free; his lips are bleeding, his teeth hurt. He’s thirsty, his back is killing him, and he desperately needs to relieve himself. To his dismay, he hasn’t made much headway: the ropes have barely loosened. Anne knew what she was doing.

A sound makes him look up from his arduous work: a soft, familiarly rhythmic knock on his door. Then an equally familiar voice, muffled through the thick wood:

“Athos?”

_Aramis._

“Get- … get in here!” He croaks, sounding more desperate than intended. “Aramis! I need-”

He hasn’t even finished the sentence when the door flies open with a bang and Aramis steps inside, cocked pistol first. His sniper’s gaze scans the room for danger before, after finding none, settling on Athos. Aghast, he lets the pistol sink and rushes to his side.

“Athos! My God. What happened?”

His dark Spanish eyes taking him in, Aramis tugs his gloves from his hands and cradles Athos’ face. It’s a healer’s touch: gentle, exploring, comforting; Aramis’ first course of action with any injured comrade, and it immediately makes Athos feel safe.

“Anne,” he rasps while Aramis inspects him, frowning deeply at his wounded neck and quickly proceeding to untie him.

“She was here? This was her doing?” Appalled, Aramis has pulled his dagger from his belt and begins to cut through the rope, careful not to cause any more damage to Athos’ bleeding wrists. “What on earth did she want here?”

“Information.” The first rope gives, and with a gasp of relief Athos rotates his hands and rolls his shoulders. Everything feels stiff. “She wanted to know what we’d found out about her.”

“But you didn’t tell her.” Aramis squints at him.

Athos inhales and opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. 

Aramis tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. 

“Oh, Athos…” 

Athos stammers. “I couldn’t… I… She was...”

“Never mind that now.”

The healer’s touch returns, now as a hand settling on Athos shoulder in reassurance. “Not much you could’ve told her that would make a difference. The whole regiment is patrolling the town. If she’s still in Paris, we will find her. But we need to report to Treville.”

“I know.”

After a few more moments of sawing, Athos’ legs are free as well, and he swings them over the side of the bed, pins and needles running through his reawakening limbs. Tapping his feet on the floor to help increase blood flow, Athos sees Aramis eyeing the silver collar.

“She’s insane.” The marksman shakes his head.

“She has her reasons,” Athos replies darkly.

“Athos,” Aramis says warningly. “We’ve been over this. You are not responsible for her actions. And you’re not going down that rabbit hole again.” He reaches a hand out to Athos. “Can you stand? I want you at the garrison. You’re clearly not safe here, we have to tell Treville what happened, and I need to treat your wounds.”

Athos rolls his eyes. Weariness seems to glue him to his bed. But there is Aramis’ inviting hand, and there is his aching bladder, so, with a hoarse sigh, he lets himself be pulled to his feet. A strong arm braces his back when he sways a little, and a waterskin finds its way into his grasp seemingly on its own volition. He uncorks it and drinks, the water cooling his sore throat from the inside, and for a moment relief mingles with shame and gratefulness and he’s close - _this_ close - to burying his face in Aramis’ shoulder and crying into it. But he pulls himself together, knowing there’ll be time for this later, when he’s with a different companion, one that comes in a bottle and whose embrace is non-judgemental and ever-forgiving.

He hands the waterskin back to Aramis. “Let’s go.”

The marksman gives him a last taxing look, then he hooks him under and walks him out of the building where his horse is waiting patiently.


End file.
